Harry Potter, The Lone Warrior
by Cookie Montser
Summary: Thirteen years ago, Mad-Eye Moody spirited Harry away from Godric's Hollow against the wishes of the Order, fleeing to Continental Europe in the hopes of raising the boy to be a deadly and brilliant wizard, one capable of facing Voldemort. Now, Harry returns to Britain with Europe in turmoil, to assume his mantle as Voldemort's mortal enemy. (Harry is thirteen).
1. Prologue

I do not own any of this. I don't intend to make money of it. Ok?

**A/N**: This is the introduction to a new story. I intend for it to be long and magnificent. Don't think it's going to be at all like the original series. Consider it an alternate universe where absolutely anything can happen, short of Snape liking Harry, of cour_se.  
_Gimme reviews, or I'll hunt you.

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**Prologue**

_31__st__ October, 1981_

A faint _pop_ interrupted the silence of Godric's Hollow, summoning forth a wizard dressed in black. He was stocky and muscled, every inch of his skin scarred beyond repair. His mouth was twisted in a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing—remnants of old battles and memories of fallen enemies. But it was the man's eyes that made him frightening. One was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. It moved ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye—watching all places at the same time.

He lowered the hood of his traveling cloak and shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair. He stood perfectly still in the shadows of a stooping oak, watching the darkness with unwavering intent—waiting for the enemy to show themselves, if they were there. For a while, it seemed almost as if he would never move, as if he weren't even human. But the wind stirred gently, sweeping across him, and it seemed to wake the wizard from his deep attention.

There was another _pop_, this one louder, and a second wizard appeared, taller and much younger than the first. He turned to his companion, looking down at the stocky man with a shadow of respect. "Alastor," he said with a regal nod, his voice deep and strong despite his age. "I apologize for my lateness. Lucius made me stay for dinner."

"What'd that slimy shit want?"

"He was hoping for my vote in the Wizengamot next week," the man replied, smiling at the epithet. "Some Bill to do with Muggle rights and Pureblood supremacy."

"Nothing about Voldemort's plans, then?"

The man shivered at the name. "The Dark Lord has devoted himself to finding Harry Potter," he said simply. "Most of us have been tasked with discovering his location. Pettigrew is realistically the only person capable of doing so, now that we know he's the Secret Keeper to the Potters' Fidelius Charm."

Alastor Moody, auror and member of the Order of the Phoenix, glanced briefly at the other wizard. "Was."

"Sorry?"

"Pettigrew _was _the Secret Keeper."

The man blinked. "I assume you caught up to him?"

"Did you have any doubt, laddie?" he asked, taunting. "Pettigrew was quick to spill his guts, the coward. Told me where the Potters were staying—begged for his life too."

"Did you take care of it?"

The auror barked out a laugh. "What do you think? He's dead." A sudden grin twisted Moody's scarred face. "I sent his head to Dumbledore with a letter attached. He should be getting it in the morning. A farewell gift, you might say."

The younger wizard looked vaguely disgusted. "I question your sanity sometimes, Alastor."

"Only sometimes?" asked Moody. "Well, I must be doing something wrong then."

The man ignored the comment and let out a deep breath. "I suppose that means our plans have almost reached fruition," he spoke. "Is everything in place?"

"Are you questioning me?"

"With so much at stake, I think I'm owed that much," he replied, his cultured voice calm and cold. "After all, if it weren't for me, you and your friends would never have discovered Pettigrew's true loyalties, and the young Harry Potter would be nothing more than a bloody smear on history's canvass. Set aside your distrust for a moment."

Moody snorted but didn't deny the claim the man had made. "Don't you worry your pretty little head over it," he replied. "The Potters are staying here; I've confirmed it. Right down the street, in fact. I'll have the boy soon enough, and then off into the wilderness for the both of us."

The taller man scowled slightly, frowning at his companion with a shadow of uncertainty. He drew out a gold pocket watch and blinked at it for a moment. "I have to leave soon," he said with a sigh, slipping it back into his pocket. "Can you take them alone or should I lend a quick hand? I hear James Potter is quite the duelist, though from what I've seen, his form is quote sloppy."

Moody turned to give the man a flat stare. "The Potters are excellent fighters, but they need another ten years under their belt before they can challenge me," he replied. "You go on your merry way, boy. Give ol' Voldemort my best."

The man turned to leave, but stopped midway. "Where will you take the boy?"

"That's not your problem." Moody's blue eye focused on him, almost if challenging him to say something. "He's going somewhere far away, and you won't hear a word about him for many years. When the time's right, I'll be in touch."

The man released a long breath. "Farewell, Alastor," he spoke. "The boy is our future. Don't make any mistakes."

And with that, he disappeared, and the village was quiet once more. Alastor Moody stepped out of the shadows of the oak, his wooden leg clicking against the ground. Godric's Hollow was small village, built around a decrepit church, an old post office and a pub that had seen many better nights. You wouldn't think it was the home to some of the most notable wizards of the modern age, nor that the very object of the Dark Lord's downfall resided somewhere in the quaint little cottages that lined Church Lane.

Moody had been here before. There was a certain irony to the fact that Dumbledore would hide the Potters so close to his childhood home, almost as if he was taunting Voldemort, a pastime which was usually limited to Moody himself. He made no sound save for the _click _of his leg as he walked down the deserted lane, and the billowing wind seemed to give him a wide berth, refusing to stir his sweeping cloak.

He approached the house at the end of the street, an ordinary home—unremarkable as the rest of Godric's Hollow. The shingled roof was covered in twisting vines and the old stone walls layered with slick moss. There was a peace about it that was almost attractive, but Moody was here to shatter that peace, to take away from those who lived within its walls something that was dear to them. It wasn't in his nature to hurt innocents, to cause pain and suffering where it wasn't due, but he understood what it meant to make sacrifices, to commit a lesser wrong in order to prevent a greater one.

The auror drew his wand, holding it loosely between his fingers. If it weren't for Peter Pettigrew, he wouldn't have been able to see this place—no matter what magic he attempted to reveal it. The Fidelius Charm was ancient and powerful, but the Potters had made the mistake of trusting Pettigrew as their Secret Keeper. Moody had discovered their location after subjecting the rat to the Cruciatus Curse. By the time anyone discovered what had happened, he would be away, the child with him.

With a sigh that was lost in the wind, Alastor Moody stepped onto the cobblestone path that led to the front door. The shivering wards pressed up against him, but he whispered the password under his breath, and the magic faded immediately, leaving him free to approach. The Potters had no doubt sensed him coming—sensed the failure of their wards. By now, they would be wondering who'd betrayed them.

The front door slammed open and out stepped a man with unruly black hair. A crackling red spell erupted from him wand, but Moody raised a shield with a flick of his wrist, blocking the stunner. The young man sent two more, within a split second of each other, but they bounced harmlessly, disappearing into the night.

"Stop that nonsense!" ordered Moody, snapping his wand up and hurling a weak Searing Curse at the man. It knocked him back a step, leaving him somewhat dazed. "Excellent reflexes, by the way. I trained you well."

"Alastor?" asked James Potter in obvious relief, peering into the dark. "What in the world are you doing here? The Fidelius—?"

Moody waved his hand for silence. "Pettigrew's dead," he said bluntly.

Deep pain marred the young man's features, and he leaned against the side of the door in shock. "D-dead?"

"Aye," he replied. "We were ambushed in London. He gave me your location before he passed, the boy did. Pack your bags quick as you can. We're moving you somewhere else. Dumbledore's on his way to set up another Fidelius."

Calm shuttered across James eyes, and the auror spirit took over. He turned immediately and disappeared into the house. Moody gave him a moment before following him, just in time to catch the back end of the conversation taking place inside.

"—Peter's dead?" It was Lily, sorrow in her soft voice. "Oh, James. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, honey."

James's voice came back, strong and steady. "Now's not the time to mourn, Lil," he said. "Alastor says we have to move immediately. Pack what you can; leave the rest. We can send Sirius back for it later."

"I'll just get Harry's clothes—"

Moody stepped into the room, his wand raised before him. Husband and wife froze in their places, staring at him in shock and confusion. Their eyes were wide, lips apart in twin expressions of disbelief. He knew what they were thinking, what any sane man or woman would think in this situation.

"W-What? Alastor?"

Moody's wand was steady, his heart was made of stone. "I'm sorry about this, laddie, but there's no way around it," said the auror calmly. "It hurts me more than you know."

"_Alastor!_" Lily's voice lashed across him, filled with hurt and fury. "What do you think you're doing?"

He didn't look at her. He didn't want to see the pain in her gaze. He'd always had a soft spot for the brave young witch, and it would be his undoing. "It's for best, Lily," he whispered, focusing only on James. "I'll take good care of him. I'll teach him how to survive, how to fight. I'll make him a wizard to be feared."

James went for his wand, quick as lightning.

Moody was faster.

"_Stupefy"_

He collapsed, a rush of breath escaping his lungs.

Lily hadn't moved. She just watched unflinching, her gaze brittle as steel "You bastard," she spat, cold and unforgiving. "So this is what we've come to? Friends and brothers going at each other's throats? No wonder we're losing the war."

"No time to explain, girl," he replied. "I wish I could, but I have to leave you here."

"Are you Voldemort's man?" she demanded, ignoring him and taking a step forward. "_A filthy traitor?_"

The auror scowled and turned his gaze on her. "The hell I am!" he snapped. "It was Pettigrew, and he's taken care off. Dumbledore should know by morning."

"Then why are you here?" Not even a blink when it came to Pettigrew. Brave witch.

"For Harry, girl," he replied, gesturing vaguely at the wall. "He's too important. I can't have the lot of you fumbling to protect him like a bunch of amateurs. If I hadn't found Pettigrew when I did, he would've told the Dark Lord where you were. The boy would already be dead, and the war lost forever. I can't allow that again."

Her wand came up, with such speed that Alastor didn't even see it.

"_Aveda Ked—_"

"_Stupefy._"

She fell beside her husband, eyes closed and breath flowing steadily into her lungs. The auror stared at her for a long and quiet moment, savoring the electric shock that rippled through him. It'd been a long time—longer than he could remember—since anyone had managed to surprise him like that, but the last thing he'd expected was for Lily Potter to try her hand at the Killing Curse. Especially against him, a friend of many years, loyal to the cause. But the love of a mother was something he would never understand.

It was deeper than anything he had ever felt or ever could feel.

Moody stepped over their limp forms, walking into the adjoining room. Harry was there, sound asleep, his chest rising and falling with small breaths. The boy was so tiny; so small; so weak. He lifted the boy gently, only to have him wake up suddenly, his tiny legs stretching out and his pudgy face twisting in a sleepy yawn. His little fists clenched fiercely as he yowled like a kitten.

Moody froze, unsure of what to do. The boy stared at him for a long moment, head cocked to the side in curiosity. His eyes were bright green, as green as the curse that took life. They were his mother's eyes. He yawned again, this time longer and more tiredly.

The boy shut his eyes.

Moody disapparated.

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In the next chapter, we see our prodigal hero (Harry) many years later in the company of Mad-Eye Moody, interrogating a Death Eater.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I own nothing, remember. All of it belongs to Her. Anyhow, this is the second issue of the story. I know Harry Potter, The Lone Warrior is a rather lame name, but I couldn't care less what I called my story, so long you people like it. The prologue gave you a glimpse into events many years ago, but now we come to present day Germany, in the Black Forest. **REVIEWS!**

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**ONE**

_July 31__st__, 1993 _

Harry observed the Death Eater's interrogation with a flat gaze, revealing nothing of what he felt, not that he felt anything to begin with. Moody had taught him how to be cold—how to turn off his emotion, to flip the proverbial switch. He could sympathize with others; empathize too. He could feel true emotion: sadness, longing, joy and hatred, but he could turn it all off—descend into a place of silence.

The Fortress, where he now resided, quiet, patient and unafraid.

"_Crucio._"

Moody spoke the word calmly, and the Death Eater arched on the grassy ground of the forest. The Silencing Charm contained his screams as he thrashed about, but even without them it was doubtful anyone would have heard his cries. They were in the Black Forest, Germany, close to the south-west border. It had been their home for the past few years (after they left France), and the foolish Death Eater had just happened to cross through their wards by mistake. Harry had almost killed him outright, surprised as he was, but Moody's quick thinking saved the man, if only temporarily.

The Death Eater's eyes rolled back in his head a few seconds later and thick froth collected at the corners of his mouth. These were the first signs of mental breakdown, realized Harry with clinical detachment. From what Moody had told him, the most resilient subjects lasted as long as five minutes if subjected to a continuous Cruciatus. That time could easily be extended to thirty minutes if the spells were limited to shorter durations with greater pauses in-between each subsequent Cruciatus. Not the best topic to discuss with a child, but he claimed it was for the sake of his survival.

The Death Eater had lasted twenty minutes so far.

Moody released the spell and looked down at the man with his electric-blue eye. "We need dates, locations and numbers," he said in his gravelly, deep voice. "Tell us when; tell us how; tell use your numbers and strategy."

"V-Vhat more…vhat more do you want?" he gasped in a slight German accent, rolling onto his back and dragging in heavy breaths. "I've told you all I know."

Moody placed his wooden leg on the man's hand and bore down with all his weight. Harry heard the brittle bones crack under the pressure, but the man barely whimpered. After the Cruciatus, almost nothing felt painful. Harry knew well enough—Moody had made sure to teach him how to resist all forms of interrogation, starting with Legilimency and progressing gradually to the Imperius and Cruciatus. Those memories were by far the worst relating to his childhood with Moody, worse even than when he'd sliced a Death Eater in half with a Cutting Curse.

The man screamed again, pulling Harry out of his thoughts.

"Listen, boy. All you've said is there's going to be an attack on Hogwarts," replied the once-auror. "That's nothing. That's shite. I want something I can use, laddie, or I'm going to cruciate you 'til your brains burst down your nose."

The Death Eater sobbed. "Look…I'm vith the Germans. See, I'm German," he pleaded. "Dis has nothing to do vith us. Rumors, nothing more. Rumors. All I've heard is there vill be an attack on your Hogwarts in next vew months. Don't know vhen. Just next vew months."

Moody considered the words for a moment and then jerked his head at Harry. They walked a distance away, but not far enough that they couldn't see the Death Eater. "Didn't expect this for you thirteenth birthday, did you, boy?" asked the man, daring him to whine. "I'll get you a little princess cake once we're done if that's what you want."

"A Cruciatus is just fine, thanks," replied Harry with a quick grin. "For what it's worth, I believe him. He doesn't have anything to tell us. Voldemort keeps his plans compartmentalized. If he's preparing an attack on Hogwarts, it'll be from Norway and not Germany. It's his base of operations and Scotland is right across the North Sea from him. He'll probably use the Durmstrang ships to sail across, with all that ancient ward-breaking magic in their hulls. If he wants, he could sail right through Britain's defenses."

Moody ruffled his hair, a shadow of pride in his eyes. "Smart thinking, but you're wrong. He'll never launch a full scale attack from another county, not with the new wards Rufus Scrimgeour is putting up around the border. Durmstrang has three ships, and he won't risk them unless he has a greater plan" replied the once-auror. "If anything, he'll use whatever Death Eaters he has entrenched in Britain and he'll try to smuggle some more in across the Channel, possibly through France since that's where border customs is most relaxed."

"Or across the North Sea," said Harry adamantly.

"Never. Too much security on that side," replied Moody. "Even with the Durmstrang ships. But a plan like this takes months to put together and execute. I'd say Christmas at the earliest. He might find a way to use the North Sea by then, but I'm not particularly convinced."

"Five, six months," muttered Harry thoughtfully. "But why attack a school? If you can pull of an assault large enough to take Hogwarts, why not just go straight for London. Burn it to the ground and use the chaos to his advantage."

The auror slapped the back of Harry's head—hard. "Just when I thought you were smart," he said, but there was no anger in his tone. "Voldemort may be a dark wizard, but he's not a fool. He doesn't want to conquer a nation of ashes. I think he wants Hogwarts for the students; every one of them can be traced back to the most powerful families in Britain. Imagine the potential for leverage. He could turn the tide of the war in one, fell swoop. Maybe he's even hoping to kill Dumbledore."

Harry winced and rubbed the back of his head. "Not unless he's there personally and ready to put everything on the line."

"He may as well be, laddie. Who knows?"

"Well," Harry replied, "we have more than enough time to warn them."

Moody grunted loudly with contempt. "And how do you propose we do that, laddie?" he asked. "I disappeared thirteen years ago with you. I bet half of them think I'm a Death Eater myself. And what if this turns out to be nothing at all—a false warning? These fools are always whispering about grand plans, most of which amount to nothing at all."

"And if it turns out to be something…? I don't want that on my conscience," replied Harry firmly. "We're warning them, sir."

"Are we, now?" he asked, amused. "Giving me orders, laddie?"

"No, sir," he replied. "Wouldn't think of it. But you know I'm right. Send Dumbledore an owl; if he's half as smart as you say he is, he'll know you aren't on Voldemort's side. There's no harm in it for you."

The old warrior sucked a breath in through his missing nose and let it out again, almost if he was trying to keep from bursting with anger. "Fine, we'll do it," he replied finally. "Take care of the Death Eater and bury his body."

"Me?"

"Well, you're making all the decisions, aren't you?" he snapped. "Take care of it."

Harry sighed and pulled his wand out. It wasn't nearly as nice as Moody's. Ever since Voldemort's rise to power and subsequent retreat to Norway, most European countries decided to institute strict laws concerning wands, all except for Britain, of course (always the last to make a smart decision). It was difficult to get your hands on a wand without having to prove your identity with a thorough background check. It made it difficult for Harry to buy a proper wand, so he used an elder wood shaft blessed by the druids in Black Forest. It worked almost as well as a real wand, but there were some drawbacks—like misfires and weaker spellcasting.

He learned to live with them.

Just as he began to walk back towards the fallen Death Eater, a resounding _crack_ split the forest air, followed by a half a dozen similar sounds, all within a hundred meters of them. Before he knew what was happening, Moody had a tight grip on him, dragging him away from the prone Death Eater.

"They're here!" he spat out. "We have to apparate—"

The weight of a Disapparition Ward settled over them with surprising suddenness, grounding them to their location. S_tandard ambush tactics_, thought Harry evenly, still in the Fortress, in his place of a calm and control. _Surround; prevent escape; attack._

"Where are they?" he asked under his breath, twisting around and staring at the darkness of the forest. "I can't see them."

"Three approaching from your twelve," replied Moody, his voice barely a whisper. "Four approaching from behind. I'll take the four and you take your three. Got it, laddie?"

"Got it."

"Remember. _Constant vigilance!_"

Harry didn't reply. He was already on the move, slinking away from Moody and into the surrounding night. He stopped briefly once out of sight and lifted his wand to touch his head.

"_Illusio_," he thought, concentrating on the nonverbal spell.

The Disillusionment Charm spread across him like warm water, seeping into his very flesh. It wasn't a flawless means of disguise, but it worked perfectly in a night like this, with the shadows of the Black Forest shielding him from the pale moonlight. The Death Eaters were already within sight by now, their silhouettes visible against the deeper darkness of the night. Unlike him, they hadn't thought of hiding themselves, which was all the better for him.

Harry moved silently, calling on the years he had spent in forests much like this one, learning to move without and sound and as discreetly as possible. He circled around the Death Eaters, approaching them from behind. He stopped a short distance away and dropped to one knee, placing his palm flat on the cool earth.

Gentle, flowing energy leapt up at him from the soil, flowing like liquid into his very veins. It was the presence of Earth, the breath of the forest itself—the soul of animals in it. Harry felt like he was standing on the edge of an ocean, with gentle waves lapping at his ankles. The lodestone tied on a string around his throat grew gradually warmer, absorbing the energy and holding it temporarily for him to use. He concentrated on the lodestone, summoning form the druidic arts so unlike the arcane practiced by wizards. It was a visceral magic, a magic that came from within—natural and unadulterated.

The ground under his palm shivered slightly, and the soil flowed upwards, rocks and earth mixing together and rising to form a grotesque, bipedal creature formed of dirt and stone. It was slightly taller than he was, given life by the wandless transfiguration taught to him by the Druids of the Black Forest. With a soundless command from his mind, he sent it after one of the Death Eaters, a command that promised violence and death.

The Earthman took off at a run, massive feet thundering over the soil. They heard it coming from afar—felt the shiver in their feet as it marched—and all three wizards whirled around, wands pointed forward. Spells battered his animated attacker, blasting massive holes in its torso, but soil flowed in to mend the breaks, even when a powerful Reductor Curse blew away its head.

The transfigured earth caught one of the men in its powerful arms and bore him to the ground, holding him down effortlessly with its weight. The Death Eater was still screaming when the Earthman dragged him into the soil, pulling him down under the forest and into roots below. His end would be painful, suffocating of dirt, unable to see or hear, unable to move—not even to fight for the smallest breath of life.

One of the two Death Eaters hissed out a spell that Harry didn't recognize, flicking his wand up in an awkward movement. A silver light streaked out, racing straight for Harry's transfiguration. It struck the Earthman in the chest, and for a second, nothing seemed to happen, but then a current passed over through the transfiguration, turning it to solid stone.

In a distant corner of his mind, Harry felt his link to the creature wither and die as his magic failed to revive it from the effects of the spell. The lodestone around his neck lost its warmth, cooling against the skin of his chest, and Harry didn't bother raising another Earthman to do his bidding. One was more than enough to put them on edge.

"_Augen offen halten_," snapped the man in German, which Harry spoke fluently. Keep your eyes open. "_Er sich versteckt nicht weit entfernt_." He's hiding close by.

In the distance, bright flashes of light and muffled screams signaled the beginning of Moody's battle against his four Death Eaters. He wasn't the kind to use subtle magic; Moody leapt into a fight and cursed his way through, which wasn't always the wisest decision when facing multiple opponents. As it was, Harry had to act quickly if he wanted to help his mentor, who wasn't nearly as young as he imagined himself to be.

One of the Death Eaters was no more than thirty feet away, creeping carefully between the tree trunks, almost as if he expected to escape notice with such amateur technique. His eyes settled on where Harry was standing, pausing for a moment before moving on. Then, suddenly, his head snapped back and he stared right at him, eyes widening in realization.

"_Er ist unsichtbar—!_" He's Invisible—!

"_Diffindo!_"

Harry's nonverbal curse cut across the man's throat, slicing through that layer of skin taught against the larynx, through the jugular vein and carotid artery, into his trachea and out the back of his neck through his spine. A dark mist of blood burst out behind him and his head toppled off his shoulders, followed closely by his trunk.

Harry spun smoothly, pivoting on his foot to face the second attacker.

_"Protego!_"

He raised his shield just in time to block two closely spaced Stunners, which burst against the dome of his defense with flairs of red light. The Death Eater couldn't see him clearly, but the mere impression of his presence was evident even in the dark. The man leapt forward without pausing his salvo of hexes and slashed his wand down in a sweeping arc, sending a blue spell rippling towards him. Harry had no time to guess what it was and whether his shield could hold it. So he leapt out of the way, ducking a rolling before bouncing back up and racing parallel to the Death Eater.

Even in the dark, the man managed to track Harry's movement by the slight shift of light. Thrice more he attacked, but each time Harry ducked and wove fluidly, not even attempting to raise his shield again. He knew there would be an opening—some mistake—which he would exploit with precision and brutality, leaving his enemy dead—

A green Killing Curse hissed past Harry, leaving a trail of dark energy in its wake. The whole forest seemed to shiver with its passage, screaming its aversion to the agent of death. The spell splashed across a nearby tree, turning it entirely to ash—the whole length of it. Harry whirled around in fury, rage boiling up inside him, rising in an unstoppable tide, and whipped his wand at the Death Eater.

"_Gran Lux!_"

A bright flare of light—brighter than the noon sun—burst through the forest. It lasted less than a second, but it left the Death Eater blind and staggering, the darkness thicker than ever. He couldn't see, not with his pupils reduced to a mere pin-point, barely enough to let any light into his eyes.

Harry aimed deliberately and imparted his energy into two, powerful words.

"_Ingnis Maxima!_"

Flames bloomed from the tip of his wand—a single spark that expanded into a golden conflagration of dancing fire. Each ember, each tongue and curve of flame—he could see it all. Blue and bright yellow twirled within the flare of orange, and each coil seemed to possess a life of its own, all racing towards the dazed Death Eater, unknowing and defeated.

The man was too slow to lift his shields, and the fire rolled across him in a wave of heat. His clothes erupted in flames, his hair melted instantly and his flesh boiled, peeling away to expose red muscle, which charred instantly under the searing fire.

He didn't even scream—he just died.

Harry waited a brief moment for him to topple over before racing away, sprinting towards the flashing lights. He whipped the Disillusionment Charm off himself and bounded over protruding roots and holes in the ground, trying desperately to reach the battle up ahead. He exited into a wide clearing, spotting Moody engaged in a duel against two wizards, while two more lay still on the ground, clearly dead. The man they had been interrogating was trying to stand up, but the Cruciatus had left him too weak to fight. His legs trembled under him, his entire body shook with fatigue and the vestiges of agony.

Even so, Harry knew he couldn't let him escape. He would report back to his superiors, who would send word to their superiors. In less than an hour, word would reach Voldemort in Norway and he would know his plans had been exposed.

He hated killing a man who couldn't fight back, who had neither the means nor the strength to retaliate, but it had to be done. There was no getting around it. A necessary wrong, Moody would have said.

Harry aimed carefully. "_Expulso_."

The Death Eater's flesh exploded, leaving a gaping hole the size of his fist where the man's heart should have been. It was brutal but painless. He turned to aid Moody, who had already killed one more opponent, leaving only a single Death Eater standing, who fought with fury, sending spell after spell at the retired auror.

Moody's wooden leg caught in the soil and he stumbled.

At the same time, the Death Eater sent an undulating black curse his way.

Moody moved unbelievably fast, twisting on his back foot, but the spell clipped his left hip before disappearing into the forest. Almost simultaneously, a Killing Curse from Moody hit the man square in the face, ripping his soul free from his body and ending him instantly.

Harry let out a deep breath of relief, and threw his head back, laughing into the night. "That was close!" he said managed to croak, moving toward Moody. "Too damn close, sir. Sloppy work on your part."

The auror stumbled.

Harry caught him just in time, but they were both dragged down under his weight. Moody's eyes were open, his gaze alert, but something was seriously wrong.

"My hip," he said calmly. "I've been hit. Forgot my own motto: _Constant vigilance!_"

Harry looked down, and that's when he smelled the putrefaction—the stink of death. It burned his nostrils and summoned forth a wave of nausea, which he struggled against desperately. Still holding onto Moody, he jerked the man's shirt up, revealing the scarred flesh beneath. It was black as the night sky, rotting away right before Harry's eyes. And the decay was spreading slowly, spreading across his stomach.

"No," he muttered softly. "No. Please, no!"

"Snap out of it, boy!" ordered Moody, grabbing him by the collar and shaking him roughly. "Tell me what it is."

Harry drew in a rattling breath. "R-Rotting Curse, I think," he replied through gritted teeth. "Damnit! It's a Rotting Curse."

"How far along?"

He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. _What was the question?_

"Boy! How far along?"

Harry hoisted the auror a little higher, descending into the Fortress—that place where there was only quiet and composure, where fear and anger were the enemy. "I'm going to take you to the grove," he said evenly, almost if he were discussing the weather. "The druids will heal you. They can do something about this; I know they can."

"We may not have time!" snapped Moody. "Just stop, laddie. Just listen. There are things I have to tell—"

Harry summoned his strength and disapparated.

* * *

The grove hummed with chanting druids, all dressed in gray robes and gathered in a circle at the center of a massive clearing set at heart of the Black Forest. A bright, gray moon shone in the sable sky over them, glowing over the towering evergreens much like a beacon to guide their druidic magic. It cast a blanket of silver light over the lake at their backs, which stretched out from a wide shore—a rippling mass of darkness—toward the shadow of hills set in the distance, perched below the roof of the earth.

The peace of the grove was shattered by the sudden appearance of two figures, who seemed to leap out of thin air with a brief explosion of magical backlash. They collapsed in an untidy heap, and the chanting died down slowly until there was only quiet, and they watched as the boy struggled with the weight of the man, his face streaked with fresh tears.

Harry held onto Moody, lowering him gently onto the grass. "You'll be fine," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "It'll be fine."

"Boy, I'm dead already," replied Moody with a grimace. "You know I'm right."

Harry ignored the words and looked around desperately. "Allanon!" he called out, spotting the man who stood at the center of the druids. "I need your help. Moody—he's been hit by a Rotting Curse."

The man was tall, with fierce gray eyes and head of thick, blonde hair. He walked through the press of druids, crouching down beside Moody and pulling his shirt up without asking where to look. Allanon was old; Harry didn't know how old, but old enough to have crossed paths with Grindelwald, fought him even, and lived to tell the tale. Yet he seemed not a year over forty, with some gray in his hair but many more gold and bright. He claimed there were druids in Britain older even than him.

"Can you save him, elder?" asked Harry respectfully, his bright green eyes never wavering from the spreading corruption. "I thought if anyone could…it would be you."

The man's gaze was composed as he looked up at Harry, but there was a deep sadness behind his eyes that was enough of an answer on its own. "The darkness is too deep in him, Harry," he said quietly. "It has already reached his vital organs, spread into his blood stream. Spells like this can rarely be countered."

"But you're a druid," he replied fiercely. "I've seen you regrow limbs, mend near fatal wounds."

Allanon shook his head. "I know it must seem as if I can accomplish the impossible, but you can be no further from the truth. This magic…it is the antithesis of life. It is corruption—death incarnate," said the man. "If he'd been struck on a limb, I may have removed it and halted the poison from reaching his organs, but the choice has been taken from me. He is already dead, Harry. And he knows it."

Moody's electric-blue eye focused on the boy, the boy he had raised as an infant, whom he had taught all his magic and all his skills, to prepare him for the day when he would face his enemy on the battlefield, the herald of a new age. In a deep part of him, he felt regret stir inside him, wondering whether Harry would have been better off if he had been left in the care of his parents, to the life a child ought to live, one free of pain and hardship.

"Allanon," he spoke, his voice steady despite the pain tearing into his gut. "If I could have a moment alone with Harry."

The druid acknowledged him with a somber dip of his head and stood. Wordlessly, the others faded away, each coming forward briefly to lay a hand on Moody's shoulders, a silent goodbye to the retired auror. They were finally left alone by the edge of the lake, the waters glittering before them in a vast expanse.

Harry's breaths came out in quick and uncontrolled bursts, driven by grief and a pain far more terrible than any he had felt. Twice he tried to descend into the Fortress, to rid himself of the ache that resounded through him, but his mind was in turmoil. He'd never felt as he did now, like a part him was slowly being torn away. He could see it happening, but nothing he did could counter the rising tide of panic. Nothing he did could stop the inevitable, and it made him weak and helpless.

"Enough of that laddie," said the auror sternly.

The boy blinked back tears, but didn't look up.

"Look at me, Harry."

The boy shook himself. Moody didn't usually use his name, only in times when he was very serious. "Yes?" he managed to croak. "I'm listening, sir."

"Good, because I'm only going to say it once," said the man, obviously annoyed by his antics. "Remember Ragnuk from Frankfurt?"

"The goblin?" asked Harry, frowning through a haze of tears.

"That's the one."

"W-what about him?"

"I have a contingency—"

Harry threw his hands in frustration. "I know all about the goddamned contingency plan, damnit!" he shouted. "Do you really want your last words to be about some shady blackmarket goblin? Because I'll leave you to die alone, if that's your plan. For once, I just want us to be normal!"

He saw the blow coming, but he did nothing to stop it. Moody backhanded him across the cheek. It was a powerful hit, even with him weak as he was, and Harry barely managed not to fall over on the grass.

"Shut your face, laddie, and listen well," he said, stern and commanding. "I never was one for tears, and I didn't raise you to be soft. You can cry when I'm dead and gone, but I expect you to obey me right now. Is that understood, boy?"

Harry stared defiantly at the man before dropping his head down in abject defeat. "Yes, sir."

"That's more like it. Now take me through the contingency plan," he said. "Every step of the way."

Harry gritted his teeth but somehow managed to summon a modicum of calm, just enough to reach into his memories and retrieve the details of how he could escape Germany and return to Britain. With Moody dead, Germany wasn't all that safe for him. Voldemort's influence was deeply entrenched, and he had followers on every street corner reporting back to him. They would eventually find him if he didn't leave quickly.

"Once you're…once you're d-dead, I'll apparate to Frankfurt and visit Ragnuk," said Harry carefully, keeping his tone even. "He'll have identity papers for me under the name of Heimrich Riddle, a German national and student at Durmstrang, with all the necessary educational documents to prove it."

"Good. What else?"

"He'll give me a packet containing a detailed backstory for my identity, including medical records, travel history—even bills and receipts," he continued. "He'll have an account set up for me at Gringotts in Britain and an apartment in London under a fake name so I can't be traced back to it."

Moody nodded, his face showing some pain now. "And how will you get to Britain?"

"Through France," answered Harry. "The goblins run a boat across the channel transporting illegal artifacts. Ragnuk will have passage arranged for me, which should get be to Britain's shores, from where I apparate."

"Once you're in London, what then?"

"I'll send a letter to Hogwarts, pretending to be a Durmstrang student seeking a transfer."

"And what's your reason for transferring?"

Harry managed a faint smile. "Voldemort has too much influence over Durmstrang" he replied. "I'm uncomfortable with their practices, and as a half-blood I don't want to risk being persecuted. I'm the victim of bullying, and even been subjected multiple times to the Cruciatus, while in the presence of teachers. The environment isn't to my liking."

"Good," said Moody with a firm nod. "There've been quite a few transfers to Hogwarts since Voldemort shifted his base of power to Norway. No one will think twice about you. Just keep your head down and stay at Hogwarts; it's the safest place for you without me around."

"Germany's safer," muttered Harry under his breath. "I could stay here at the grove and complete my apprenticeship with the druids."

The retired auror shook his head. "The time's come for you to return, laddie," he said, grimacing now as the corruption reached deeper. Harry could smell it in the air, pungent and powerful. "It's too bad I won't be there to help you, but I always expected it to be this way. Remember what I told you: don't reveal your identity too soon; the Order has spies in it, as does Hogwarts. You don't know who the enemy is and who isn't. Trust no one, boy. _No one_."

"Constant vigilance."

"Aye, constant vigilance, and don't ever forget it."

Harry bobbed his head, discreetly wiping away a stray tear. He stared at Moody for a long while before swallowing the lump his throat. "Anything else I should know?"

The auror sighed and shifted slightly to lessen the pain. "I don't want to make this harder for you, boy, but I need you to promise me something."

"Yes?"

"Keep your distance from Lily and James."

Harry stiffened.

"Listen to me, laddie," said Moody firmly. "They'll know who you are if you get too close. Lily will know; a mother can't ever forget. Just give it time."

"Why? They're my parents!"

The auror cuffed him across the head again. "Think, you fool. _Think!_" he snapped. "Imagine what'll happen if they find out. Fireworks and celebration. They'll call their friends over, and everything will be nice and merry. Until Voldemort hears about it. And he'll hear about it, alright. Mark my words. He'll take your mother and torture her until you surrender yourself to him. Then he'll kill her just because he can."

Harry let out a pent-up breath of frustration.

"You know I'm right."

"I know!" barked Harry, dropping his head into his hands as it all came crashing down on him. "Damnit, I know! I don't want to lose you, sir. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm not ready yet."

Moody managed to pull himself up somehow. "To face Voldemort? Of course you're not ready," replied the retired auror. "But I've taught you all I could. You know more magic than I do; you move faster; you understand the mechanics of a battle, and you know the meaning of sacrifice. There's not a wizard your age in all of Europe who can even hope to lay a scratch on you. Look at what you did tonight—three Death Eaters!"

"Four," corrected Harry, automatically, and then let out a humorless laugh. "There was that one you fried with the Cruciatus."

"Aye, four," laughed Moody, doubling over in pain. Harry wanted to reach for him, but he knew the man wouldn't appreciate the gesture. "But don't let any of it get to your head. There will always be a wizard who is faster than you, who knows more spells you do. Your greatest advantage over him is—"

"Constant vigilance."

"I was going to say your determination, but that works too," said Moody, still grinning, his scarred face twisted. "You stay true to my teachings, and never relax. Practice—push yourself. Make every day count. Trust no one but yourself, laddie, and even then question what you see and hear a thousand times, question even your thoughts. There's nowhere Voldemort can't reach you, no place too safe. Remember that."

Harry nodded. "I won't forget."

"Now there're three things I need you to do for me once I'm gone," said Moody. "Can I trust you with them?"

Harry choked back a sob. "Y-Yes."

"You'll break my wand. First thing when I die. Break my wand," he said.

"Why?"

"Because dark wizards can use a man's wand to find his secrets," replied the auror. "I don't want to give anyone the chance."

The boy paused for a moment. "I was hoping—"

"To use my wand as your own?" asked Moody knowingly. "No, that won't work at all. My wand's been with me since I was a boy. It knows its master. It'll never obey your command—not truly. Anyhow, Allanon has a present waiting for you. I asked him to make you a wand—a proper one. He wanted to hand it over on the winter solstice, but I suppose you can't wait that long."

Harry felt no joy at the revelation. He might have been half-mad with happiness any other day, but tonight was unlike any other before it. He was losing the only person he had ever truly cared for, and the abruptness of it simply stunned him. It would be a while before he knew true happiness.

"I want you to take my body into the forest when I'm dead," he continued. "Bury me somewhere deep amongst the trees. An unmarked grave. Make sure no one can find it. Ward it with Anti-tracking Jinxes."

Harry gathered some calm around him, knowing he had to focus now, if only for Moody's sake. "I could burn it if you're worried about your bones being used in a dark ritual," he suggested. "I don't know how it'll affect your soul."

"That's why I don't want you burning me. A burial will be fine if you place the proper protections."

"And the last thing?"

Moody reached up, fingers going to the strap at the back of his head. It kept his electric-blue eye in place. Without it, the eye would simply pop out, a little too big for the socket. He unstrapped it, leaving a gaping hole in his head where it would have gone—the eye he lost fighting Voldemort himself many years ago.

Harry stared at the object, amazed as the eye kept moving around, even though it wasn't attached anymore. "You want me to have this?"

"Aye," said Moody, leaning his head back again. "I've never told you about it, have I? I bought it from _Borgin and Burkes_, this shop in Knockturn Alley. Real dark place. Supposedly belonged to a dark wizard who wanted to see all things. He came pretty close too. It's called the Eye of Everid"

"But I have both my eyes."

Moody slapped him across the head. "Doesn't matter, you fool," he snapped. "It's magical. You could strap it onto your arm. So long as it's touching you, the eye does its work. Give it a try. Go ahead, quickly now."

Harry fumbled hurriedly with the straps, tightening them around his arm so the eye was on the inside, flat against his the inside of his wrist. Almost immediately, the forest filled with light. But he realized a second later that it hadn't filled with light—that it was still dark around, but he could see as clearly as if it were day. Better even. He couldn't see things much further away than normal, but everything was so much sharper, the detail all that much greater.

He focused, and suddenly he could see Moody's beating heart, thumping against his ribcage, struggling to keep him alive. Harry could make out every distinct vein under his skin and beneath the muscle, and he could even see the poison spreading through them without check. The black corruption was just moments away from reaching the auror's heart, from reaching his brain—and then death would strike.

"You can play around when I'm dead!" muttered Moody darkly. "For now, just listen."

Harry nodded guiltily, but he didn't take the eye off. It was a useful tool, an incredible advantage in a battle. He could see all around, 360 degrees. Without even having to turn or tilt his head.

"I've mentioned a man to you by the name of Regulus. Remember?"

"Regulus Arcturus Black, the Death Eater," said Harry immediately, recalling the name from their previous conversations. "He helped you thirteen years ago. When you took me from Britain."

"The same," confirmed Moody. "Last I checked, he's still in London, alive and well. He isn't an open supporter of Voldemort, so they haven't managed to put him away, but he works for the man, and he was my spy for a while. Offered up his services for free. Saved your life and that of your parents. Saved the whole damn war, he did. He was the only person who knew Pettigrew was traitor, and he told me just in time for me to save your life."

Harry had heard this all before, so he nodded. "You want me to reach out to him once I'm back home?"

Moody smacked him—again. "And risk exposing yourself?" demanded the retired auror. "He helped me thirteen years ago, but it's not like I knew him all that well. He may Voldemort's right hand by now. He may be Dumbledore's best friend. Not a chance in hell. I'm just telling you to keep an eye on him. He's a smart man, and a powerful wizard. Strong enough to take me on, and that was when he was just twenty years old and I was a lot faster back then than I am today."

"I get it; watch out for him," muttered Harry, rubbing his bruised skull. "_Anything else_?"  
"Yes," snapped Moody. "And this is the last thing I'm going to say."

Harry let those words sink in.

"Dumbledore may seem like a charming man, someone you can trust, but don't let it fool you, laddie," warned Moody. "I'm not saying he can't be trusted. He can. He's loyal to the cause, but much like us, he understands the Greater Good. He'll turn you into a mascot if he finds out you're at Hogwarts. He'll make you a rallying point to raise Britain's spirits and build himself an army, but all that's going to do is attract attention to you. Voldemort will hunt you down if that happens, and you won't survive very long."

"Trust no one. I'll remember."

"No one, laddie. No one."

Moody stiffened.

Harry grabbed his shoulders, staring down at him with the Eye of Everid. Harry saw the poison rush into his heart, spreading through the pumping muscle, killing the tissue instantly. For a moment, there was silence.

"Goodbye, Harry," he managed to gasp. "Goodbye."

And then he died.

* * *

In the next chapter, Harry prepares to depart for Britain. After burying Moody, of course.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: **So, second chapter is now released! Moody is dead, leaving Harry to fend for himself, and although he has been trained for many years, this will be Harry's first time alone in the real world. Who else to turn to be black-market goblins? REVIEWS!

* * *

**TWO**

He must have sat there for many hours, staring out over the lake, because the black sky was showing evidence of a purple and red dawn by the time Allanon came to wake him from his stupor. Harry could see the druid's approach without looking around, the Eye of Everid ever-alert, ever-watchful—like its previous master, Alastor Moody. Nothing escaped its sight, not even the fish that swam in the lake, hidden under the dark waters. Not the naiads that floated by lake floor, drifting listlessly amongst the weeds.

"Harry, it is time."

The boy stood quietly and walked over to where Moody's body lay on the grass. He reached into the man's clenched fist and pulled his wand free. With a twist of his wrist, he snapped it in half, releasing a brief flash of light. For a moment, he considered throwing the pieces away, but thought better of it and slipped them into his robes for safe keeping. He would put them back together someday, place them in a glass case to his children—tell them stories of the man who dared to defy the darkness.

"Where will you go from here?" asked Allanon. "You have a plan, I presume?"

Harry glanced away from Moody's scarred face, which was even more horrible in death than it had been in life. He expected the man to look serene, but all he saw was a twisted rictus of pain, his last expression frozen forever in a death mask. His green eyes settled on Allanon. The man seemed sad, but Harry knew it was more from having witnessed a child's loss than having seen a man die.

Allanon had seen men die.

"Back to Britain," said Harry, trusting the druid explicitly. There were no secrets between them, not in quite a few years. "It's time to face reality."

"Reality?" asked the man, a curious look on his face. "Hasn't your life, until now, been a reality?"

Harry was down in his Fortress, the stone walls raised around him, so he somehow managed to grin, but it was an expression that his face couldn't accommodate. He could see his face with the Eye of Everid, and it looked distinctly terrifying. It didn't go well with his youthful features.

"Look around you, elder," he replied, gesturing to the Black Forest and the lake before them. "I was a fool to imagine Voldemort wouldn't catch up. I deluded myself into believing this could be my home. There is peace here. Beauty. But the world isn't like that."

Allanon made a sound in his throat. "It could be, if you win."

"_If_."

"If," confirmed the druid. "It isn't a given, as you well know. Prophecies are malleable, open to a thousand interpretations. It matters not what others make of the words spoken, but rather what you make of them, and what you do to bring about the future you seek."

Harry approached the man, stopping beside him. "And what does Voldemort seek?"

"I am not him."

"But you must have a clue."

Allanon turned his head to the side. "How would I know the inner workings of a man as twisted as him? He is even more a mystery than you."

"Cosimo was your pupil. You must have an understanding of how he thinks."

The druid's eyes turned to stone.

Cosimo was a dark wizard, one whose name was feared almost as much as Voldemort's. He had risen out of the ashes of the Second World War, following Grindelwald's defeat at Dumbledore's hands. What most did not know was that Cosimo had once been a druid, apprentice to Allanon in these very forests, in this very place that they stood now. After learning all he could of the druidic arts, the man journeyed far across the world, learning the most powerful and ancient magics, before returning twenty years ago to his homeland of Italy.

It was rumored he had been Mussolini's puppet-master, much like Grindelwald had been Hitler's. Once he'd returned to his home country, Cosimo had restored a quasi-fascist rule, with him as the head of magical Italy, installing one of his lieutenants at as Prime Minister. It was from the shadows of the throne that he now ruled, controlling Italy and most of Northern Africa. Where Voldemort was prone to theatrics and displays of power, Cosimo was a more silent kind of monster, the type that waited in the darkness to strike, and to strike brutally.

"Where did you hear this?" asked Allanon. He was not angry, simply curious. "I have never spoken of Cosimo to you, nor mentioned his name in many years."

Harry tapped his ear. "Moody taught me how to listen without listening, how to see without seeing," he replied, a deep shard of pain spearing through him. "Your people whisper in the night, when they think no one is around. I hear Cosimo learned from you when he was younger, and that you failed to see the darkness in him."

"No, I saw the darkness," said Allanon, his gaze distant, "but I mistook it for ambition. I suppose it was a mix of both. By the time I realized what was festering in Cosimo's heart, he was already too powerful for me to stop, ambition feeding his strength."

"Would you have stopped him if you had known before?"

The druid thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. "No, I don't think I would have, but I may not have taught him some of our more cherished arts," said the man. "Druids believe in letting events run their course, in allowing nature to find its own equilibrium. We abhor meddling in the affairs of men. It is why we seek seclusion."

Harry knew all this, of course. He had studied under Allanon for years now. Originally, he and Moody had lived in France for the first six years of Harry's life. They were forced to flee when French authorities recognized Moody during a trip to Paris, and it had driven them over the border into Germany. They had relocated away from civilization, deep in the Black Forest, where they discovered Allanon and his people. From the age of seven until now—six whole years—Harry had studied under the druids. Their magic took a lifetime to master, but he had learned more than anyone had expected him to.

"How do I measure against him?"

"Against Cosimo?"

"Yes."

Allanon looked at him oddly. "Why do you ask?"

Harry shrugged. "Because I have almost no means by which to judge my own skill," he replied. "Did Cosimo know as much as I did when he was my age? Was he as powerful? As skilled?"

"Nothing will come of this. Every man has his own path to walk."

"Is that a yes or no?"

"It is not such a simple question," replied the druid heavily. "If the measure of a man was his skill with spells or his knowledge of the world, then I would answer the question easily enough, but there is more to it than that.

"You are driven, as was he. You are brilliant, as was he. You are brave, as was he," continued Allanon. "But you are fundamentally different people. You walk different paths. I'm sorry, but I cannot tell you what you want to know. I hope you never cross paths with my erstwhile student, but should you ever face Cosimo, you will have your answer. I have neither the wisdom nor the knowledge to tell you otherwise."

Harry knew there was no point pressing the man. He could be stubborn when he wanted to be. "I suppose this is where we part, then," he said after a while. "I'm going to bury Moody where no one will find him. Will you protect his body?"

"I will."

He began to turn, but a touch from the druid halted him. "Here. A gift from your brothers at the grove. It took us a while to make it, and I wanted to wait before giving it to you, but I suppose the luxury of time has been taken from us."

In his hand, he held a wand. It was perfectly straight, with neither a bump nor a single furrow. It was slightly thinner at the tip than it was at the base, and it was shorter than Harry had guessed it would be. But a shorter wand was quicker to draw and far more easy to maneuver. He guessed it was small as ten inches.

"I grew the wood myself, with my song and soul," he said. "It is lignum vitae, the hardest wood known to man."

Harry took it carefully, reverently, and it felt _right_ in his fingers. It felt like it belonged. "And the core?"

"The gill-cord of naiad princess," he replied with a quirk of his lips. "She was more than willing to supply it when I told her who the wand was for."

Harry still had the purity to blush, which was a relief to the druid. He had mourned the child's loss of innocence, the hardships of his training and the burden that weighed down on his shoulders, but it seemed that some things never changed.

After a brief but thorough examination, Harry turned and pointed his wand at the lake.

"_Aqua Homin Locomotor_."

The surface of the lake stirred and flowed upwards—a gentle cascade of water—to take the shape of a man. The spells _forma_, its binding, was perfectly steady, far steadier than if he had cast the spell using his old wand. He impelled the transfigured being to walk, and it did so with grace and steadiness, obeying his command without deviation. The fluidity of its motion was beautiful to witness.

"Because the wood was grown by my song, and because it has a core from the fey, it will no doubt display a powerful affinity for druidic and other natural arts," said Allanon. "It can heal as well as it can destroy, and not many wands can claim that ability—not unless they have a phoenix core."

Harry said no words of thanks, no words of praise. He didn't have to; his silence was enough, his awe of its mastery was written plainly across his face. Even so, the impact of the moment was dimmed by the body that lay close by and the death that lingered over them.

"_Finite Incantatem_."

The being of water dissolved and fell away, returning once more to the lake. Harry felt a tiny bit of his magic leave him. Transfigurations such as the one he had performed were complex works of magic, with dozens of variables to consider, most important of which were the _forma _and the _impelle_. At the beginning of his training, he had barely managed to create even one before collapsing from magical fatigue. In time, however, he had built his stamina so he could do far more for far longer.

"I have asked the brothers to pack your bags," continued Allanon. "In case you wish to leave immediately."

Harry put the wand away and turned to the druid. "I'm not taking anything with me," he said sadly. "I can't risk it betraying my identity. Even the smallest discrepancy might expose who I am, so I'd rather not risk it."

"But you will take your notes, of course?" asked the man. "They contain all your rituals. Some of which you adapted yourself with the help of the brothers. They are far too precious to leave behind; they are a legacy you will one day pass on to others."

Allanon must have seen the resignation on Harry's face, because he lifted his hand and summoned three, thick leather-bound notebooks, all filled with Harry's tiny script. Carefully drawn diagrams decorated the pages, and spells that had yet to be tested, others to be perfected. So much, years of work that he, Moody and the brothers of the grove had accomplished together.

"You should keep them close," warned Allanon. "They contain many of secrets, and in the wrong hands...well, they could serve as powerful tools."

Harry waved his wand. "_Evanesco_."

The notebooks vanished, atoms splitting apart, matter taking new form, all passing on to the ether from where he would summon them back when need arose. He was quite proud of the spell, which he knew wasn't taught until the fifth year at Hogwarts. The spell to reconstruct the object that had been vanished was even more difficult to perform, and it had taken Harry an entire week to master.

"If you are ever in need of help—"

"I'll definitely come to you," said Harry with a nod. He glanced at Moody's body. It was time to leave. "I know you'll come to my aid if I ask, but I won't bring you into my war. Moody once said this place was a tiny sliver of innocence, a place of peace and quiet, untouched by corruption. Even Cosimo, knowing where you live, hasn't dared burn this place. I think even the most twisted know there are just some things you never do."

Allanon grinned at that. "This is an old grove, an ancient one, but there are some older than it in Britain," he replied. "Should you want the company of druids, seek out Mogh Roith."

"Where?"

"Not where, but how," said the druid. "Place your hand on the soil and summon forth his name. No matter where you stand, he will hear your call."

"He's that powerful?"

"Yes."

Harry nodded once before offering the druid a deep bow.

Allanon returned it, not speaking.

Without another word, Harry levitated Moody's body and set out into the forest, feeling the magic of the grove fade away behind him. He walked for an hour or more, heading deep into the forest until the growth was so thick it blocked out all light, allowing the Eye of Everid to guide him through the predawn darkness. He finally arrived at the base of a giant tree, ten times his waist, whose top branches seemed to brush the very sky above.

Harry scooped out a large volume of dirt, carving a perfect grave in the soil. He set Moody down inside the damp earth, and then lowered the dirt back down, compressing it evenly until it was level with the rest of the forest. He then knelt over the grave and placed his hand flat on top of it, letting his fingers sink in an inch or two.

The lodestone around his throat grew warmer as he summoned Earth's energy, but instead of pulling it into his body and working the druidic magics, he funneled it into surrounding forest. Grass sprung out of the soil around him, newly born, growing swiftly as if the passage of time had somehow been sped up. The effort left him slightly heady, but the task was complete. Moody's grave looked exactly like the rest of the forest, indiscernible from any other patch of earth.

Once he had gathered his breath, Harry set about laying wards on the grave, to prevent summoning or finding, to cast a net of distraction, a field of confusion. He finally laid a careful trap, a Claymore Curse (as he liked to call it), which would trigger an explosion if anyone attempted to tamper with the gravesite. It would not only destroy Moody's body, but also the person who was attempting to reach it. It was a delicate spell, one that he and Moody had designed together, laboring for many days in an attempt to perfect it.

The incantation was simple: _Staticus Igni_. Static fire. At its heart, it was magical energy stored in a compressed state, which when triggered, transfigured the energy into heat, consuming everything in a fifteen meter radius. It was almost impossible to dismantle the Claymore Curse without an intimate understanding of how the trap was set up, and now that Moody was dead, Harry was the only person with the knowledge necessary to remove the trap. Of course, it was possible that an especially skilled wizard could figure out, but it would take hours, perhaps even days, provided he was even capable of sensing it in time to save himself.

When Harry was done, he felt a familiar ache in his bones, but one that would go away with a few hours' sleep. He hadn't rested since the skirmish with the Death Eaters, and placing the wards on Moody's grave had cost him quite a bit of a magic. He didn't want to push himself any more than he already had, considering he still had a meeting with a goblin to attend to—all the way in Frankfurt.

With a heavy sigh, Harry looked down one last time at the place where Moody was buried, before apparating away.

* * *

Frankfurt was established as a trading center in Roman times and by the twelfth century its trade fares were attracting visitors from as far away as the Baltic and Mediterranean, which made it an irresistible attraction to goblins, who went wherever the money was. What most people didn't know was that Frankfurt was also home to the largest branch of Gringotts, seeing as how it was the financial center of wizarding Europe.

Sadly enough, the only institute in Germany that taught magic was located in Berlin: _Universität Magischen Studien_. It was for more advanced study of magic, with the minimum age of enrollment at sixteen. There were of course whispers that the German Ministry was planning to open a school much like Hogwarts here in Frankfurt, seeing as how the last ten years had seen a boom in country's wizarding population.

It wasn't Harry's first time in the city, but it _was_ his first time alone. Frankfurt was a place of contrasts. Wealthy bankers, students and granola drop-outs coexisted in a city that had some of the highest, most avant-garde skyscrapers of Europe next to well-maintained old buildings of antiquity, littered with large wizarding communities nestled in the shadows. The city-center, especially Römer Square and the museums at the River Main, drew countless of tourists every year. On the other hand, many off-the-beaten-track neighborhoods, such as Bockenheim, Bornheim, Nordend and Sachsenhausen, with their intact beautiful nineteenth century streets and parks were often overlooked by visitors.

It was to one of these neighborhoods that Harry now went, in search of Ragnuk, a shady goblin who worked the underground scene, selling his services to anyone with enough money to afford him. From what Moody had told Harry, Ragnuk dealt in everything from illegal documents to assassination-for-hire, a most despicable but essential business in the wizarding world. The Gringotts goblins turned a blind eye to Ragnuk and his fellow blackmarketeers since he provided a valuable service to all parties, even goblins who wanted to work outside of the law.

Harry entered a narrow alley, departing the safety of the well-lit, rain-slick streets, and exited out behind a Chinese restaurant. Set in the wall of the alley was a solid, iron-wrought door with more wards on it than Harry could have broken through if he'd been given a week.

With the Eye of Everid handy, Harry could see the very enchantments that protected the door as a visual manifestation, reds, blues and greens, all arranged in geometric artistry beautiful enough to give the sternest curse-breaker a hard-on (pardon the French). He could distinguish each ward from the other, using Moody's electric-blue eye, in ways he hadn't thought possible, layered atop each other, crisscrossing and mixing, an amalgam of complex magic that formed a perfect defense.

This was how Moody had seen the world.

In bright colors.

Harry was under no delusion that he could break in if he wanted. Wards like these would need a team of curse-breakers working around the clock to deconstruct, not without loss of limb or life when booby-traps were taken into consideration. Even the Eye of Everid couldn't see what was on the other side of the iron-wrought door, which probably had to do with some sinister goblin magic.

Harry lifted his hand and knocked twice.

A panel slid aside near to top of the door and someone stared out at him from the other side. Harry was tall for a thirteen-year-old, all lean muscle and toughened bones, so he managed to fix his brittle green eyes easily on the person inside, demanding entrance into underground shop.

_"Ich bin hier, um Herr Ragnuk_," he spoke. I'm here to see Mr. Ragnuk.

"Name?" asked the man in German.

"Mr. Riddle."

The eyes disappeared. A minute later, they were back, and the iron door swung open. Out stepped a giant of a man, seven feet tall with mottled flesh and yellow eyes, rotten teeth poking from behind chapped lips. Harry was quite certain the man had some troll blood in him, and his stench confirmed the hunch. Trolls had a distinct smell, one you could easily recognize if you'd crossed paths with them in the past.

"Wand—" his voice seemed to make the very air tremble around him. "—and weapons."

Harry withdrew his wand—the gift from Allanon—and reluctantly passed it over to the giant of a man, afraid he might snap it by mistake. He then reached into his robes and withdrew a double-edged blade from its leather sheath. It was nine inches, black as the sable waters of sea under the moon, and designed to slip easily between the ribs to puncture the lungs or heart. Moody had taught him how to use it, how to kill with it. Most wizards expected you to go for a wand, so it sometimes came as a surprise when you stuck them with a knife or battered them with your bare fists, or so Moody claimed—had claimed.

"That all?" he mumbled.

Harry nodded, daring the man to question him.

What the troll-guard didn't know was that Harry had studied under the druids for six years. Their magic was almost entirely wandless, save for the occasional staff waving during important rituals. Wandless magic was raw and wild, like a raging ocean or a powerful emotion, but it was highly effective in trained hands. If he wanted, he would be able to perform a variety of spells without his wand, some of which could easily kill.

The inside of the place was dark, and he was led along a narrow corridor that could only fit one person abreast. He had the distinct impression they were moving below the level of the street, into some old bunker, possible from the War. His senses were on edge, the Eye of Everid watching the troll-man behind him. If he so much as moved an inch in the wrong direction, Harry would blast a hole through his chest the size of a football, or at least try to. No telling what resistance the troll blood gave the man.

He passed through an even narrower doorway into a spacious office that was filled with books and parchments and lined with bookshelves on every wall. The ceiling was low, so Harry had to duck his head, and he found himself staring at a stern goblin. He had leathery, pointed features that belied a clever mind and sharp tongue, and there was a distinct hardness about him that brooked no nonsense. His beard was trimmed to a point, and his hair combed back over his oval head in neat lines.

Looked like a true organized criminal, he did.

"Mr. Riddle, please," he said in perfect English, indicating one of the free chairs opposite his desk, "join me."

"Thank you, Herr Ragnuk," he replied with a dip of his head. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Two years and three months." The goblin was precise as ever. "Not a day to spare."

Harry tried to smile, but it was still too soon after Moody's death. It came off looking like a grimace. "I'm rather in a hurry, Herr Ragnuk, so I can't stay for long," said Harry, dispensing with the pleasantries. "I'm here for—"

"Documents, I know."

A batch of files was set before him almost immediately, magicked off a nearby bookshelf.

"Would you mind walking me through it?"

The goblin nodded. "Your name is Heimrich Riddle, son of Daniel Riddle," he began in crisp tones. "Your father is a moderately successful muggle business man who owns a retail store in Berlin. He is divorced. Your mother is a French witch, with whom you spent your formative years, accounting for your knowledge of the country and its language. She died six years ago, prompting you to move to Germany to be closer to your father."

Heimrich Riddle had been Moody's choice. Heimrich was Harry in German, which the retired auror claimed would be quite funny once Harry revealed his true identity, especially to Dumbledore. Riddle, one the other hand, came from Voldemort's original name, which Moody considered quite fitting seeing as how they were destined to be enemies.

Harry flipped the file open and browsed the details with a quick eye. "If someone goes to this retail store and asks…?"

"Then they will be told it is owned by Daniel Riddle, who has a son by the name of Heimrich, a quick-witted and kind boy," replied Ragnuk. "A background check will reveal that there is, in fact, such a man—well and alive—and his son has recently been sent off to Britain in order to continue studies, following the Dark Lord's increased influence on Durmstrang, which he previously attended."

"I'm impressed."

For at least five minutes, no one spoke. Harry went over every bit of his identity, taking Moody's lessons to heart. Trust no one. Constant vigilance. They were ideals he would depend on for many years to come, and very like it would the difference between his survival or his death at Voldemort's hands.

"What about my education?"

"Durmstrang, of course," replied Ragnuk. "It fits your backstory, as well as your reasons for moving to Britain for studies. You have slightly above average grades—nothing too special—which will not stand out too noticeably. It is better to remain hidden than to impress."

"I agree. And medical?"

"You are free of disease, a healthy boy for the most part," he said. "I have birth records and hospital visits going back many years in there, all of them quite genuine. They should stand up before the most stringent checks. This is a complete package, Mr. Riddle, one that very few can afford."

Harry nodded finally and set the files aside. He could have vanished them here, but he didn't want to give away the fact that he was proficient in wandless magic. "I was told you will also have a vault for me at Gringotts."

"Not a vault, Mr. Riddle. Vaults are usually for people who have material possessions they want to protect," he replied. "However, you have an account ready for you in Britain. Simply show yourself at Diagon Alley with your identification in hand, and you will be allowed access. Griphook, and cousin of mine, will take care of you."

"Thank you. How much can I expect to be in the account?"

The goblin said a number.

Harry slumped back in his seat, more than a little dazed.

"There is also an apartment in London for you," continued Ragnuk, ignoring his reaction most professionally. "The lease is under your father's name, of course, since you are not yet of age, but all your mail will be sent there, including anything addressed to your cover family. If you are careful, no one need ever know your identity is a fake, and in three short years you should be able to become a British citizen, which will cement your identity in public records."

"What about the boat that's supposed to get me across the channel?" asked Harry, arriving at the final and most important part of their business. "Should I expect trouble from customs?"

"None at all, Mr. Riddle," he reassured. "It is a goblin vessel, one that aurors tend to turn a blind eye towards considering the favors we perform for them in Continental Europe. Money doesn't move itself, does it now?"

_No, it doesn't_, he thought.

Harry stood and gave the Goblin a shallow bow. "I suppose that concludes our business, Herr Ragnuk?"

"It does," he replied, rising as well. "If you want our services on the other side of the Channel seek out my brother, Knarlgut. Ask for him in Knockturn Alley and someone will show you the way. He will be as discreet as I, in all matters. Your anonymity is ever secure."

"I will keep that in mind, Herr Ragnuk. Farwell."

"Farewell, Mr. Riddle, and until the tides bring you back."

With a swish of his traveling cloak, Harry turned and strode from the office.

Off to Britain.

* * *

In the next chapter, we get a glimpse of what's happening in Britain, through the eyes of some of our most favorite characters.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N**: So, someone mentioned in the reviews that they wanted to know what was happening in the rest of Britain, so I decided to write these scene sooner than I had planned to. Whatever, it makes no difference, since it fits well into the overall plot. Tell me what you think!

* * *

**THREE**

Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was _not_ having a good day. Truth be told, ever since Voldemort had made his debut as Dark-Lord-Most-Evil more than two decades ago, there hadn't been a single good day. The Auror Office was victorious on more than a few occasions, but those conquests were tempered by as many defeats, some on British soil and some beyond, in the Kingdom of Norway, and more recently in Germany, where the Dark Lord's influence grew rapidly.

It amazed her how one man's ambition could throw an entire continent into war and threaten the very foundations upon which the wizarding world stood. Dumbledore, Voldemort, Cosimo, Grindelwald—they were different sides of the same coin. Men who had to have their way no matter what the consequences, Dumbledore less so than the others.

_Damn them all_, she thought. _Damn them to hell and back_.

Amelia punched the magical intercom on her desk, leaning all her weight down on the little red button. "Get me Sirius Black and James Potter!" she barked. Adding as an afterthought, "And some bloody strong tea, if you please."

"Yes, Commander Bones," replied a tired voice. "I'll get right on it."

Commander.

She didn't like the sound of that one bit.

There'd been a time when she was simply Madam Bones, an auror with a great track-record and more than a few kills under her belt. Respected, liked and trusted—the paragon of law enforcement. Now, partly due to her lineage and mostly due to her skill, she'd been unceremoniously damned as the Head of the DMLE, tasked with leading a 'proper and aggressive' offensive against Voldemort's forces operating on domestic soil. The Dark Lord's foreign designs in Europe, as ever, were thwarted by Dumbledore and his limitless wealth of contacts, which were as mysterious as the man himself.

He was veritable genie, Dumbledore was.

And a secretive old git.

If only he dropped dead from a heart-attack.

But that was asking for too much. She should wish for something smaller, like Voldemort slipping in the bathroom and breaking his bloody neck.

Did wizards as powerful as him even go to the bathroom, or did he transfigure it all away?

"Where is my damned tea!" she snapped again, on edge. "And where are those two buffoons!"

"Here, Madam Bones, right here!" announced Sirius Black, forgoing her official title and striding rudely into her office with his signature boyish grin. Somewhere in her belly, a fire stirred awake. "The Two Buffoons, at your pleasure."

He deposited himself on a nearby seat, throwing his legs up and resting them on the edge of her gleaming desk. He gave her a wink and smile seconds before James Potter entered the room, his eyes dark and steady, alert as ever. He said nothing for a second, but had the decency to knock Sirius's feet off the table before assuming a seat beside him.

"Commander Bones," he greeted properly, dipping his head ever so slightly. "I hope all is well."

She almost snapped at him for being late, but realized that wasn't a great idea. James was one the best aurors she had, short of Kingsley and a few more experienced fighters. During his youth, he'd been cheerful enough, always fooling about with Sirius, but he'd changed after his son was taken by that nutter Moody. The worst of it was no one knew what to make it. Some said Moody has lost his marbles long before he took Harry Potter away, others said he was just lonely and wanted a son.

What utter nonsense.

Amelia's head was about to burst.

"If I have to ask for that tea again…!" she warned the intercom.

It appeared before her, just as she liked it. House elves—wonderful creatures. They were the only people (goblins too) who operated just as efficiently in wartime as they had before. She was quite sure most of them were too occupied in their work to even realize Britain was at war.

"We have new intelligence," she began, chasing away her pointless musing and passing them both manila files. "In the past two months there's been a massive influx of Death Eaters from the continent, more than we've seen in a while. We caught three of them in the last week alone, but they didn't have anything to tell us. Apparently, they were tasked with entering Britain, where they would receive further orders. So at this point, we have almost no idea why there's been a sudden rise in Death Eater's trying to get past customs, but we're operating on the theory that it isn't good."

Sirius nodded sagely. "Brilliant, madam. Brilliant."

"It gets worse," she continued, giving him a hard look. "Two independent sources have confirmed that somewhere between three and five Nightwalkers may have found their way to our shores. I don't have to tell you what kind of shit storm we might be facing."

That seemed to catch their attention, especially James', who was suddenly gripping his seat as if in pain. But there was fury in his black eyes, cold and unbending fury.

Nightwalkers were wizards and witches trained by Voldemort himself, taught secrets of the dark arts known only to a chosen few. Over the years, the DMLE had gathered enough information through their spies to piece together a general understanding of what their training constituted. It was believed by many that the final test their skill involved a duel against Voldemort himself, where they had to survive for at least a minute. If they failed, well…they died. Otherwise they assumed the mantle of Nightwalker, the Dark Lord's personal guard and pet killers. They were deadly and intelligent, the best fighters in Voldemort's ranks.

The bounty on a single Nightwalker was unbelievably high, and there was an entirely separate fund set up for paying aurors brave and skilled enough to bring back a Nightwalker's head. The only person in the Auror Office to have killed one on his own without any help was Kingsley Shaklebolt. From what Amelia had heard, however, Dumbledore seemed to have knocked off more than a few, as had his second-in-command, Severus Snape. She didn't trust the old man as far as she could throw him, which wasn't all that far, but no one could fault Dumbledore his achievements.

Rufus Scrimgeour was waiting for the day he would finally be relieved of his office and pass the burden on to someone else. He was adamant it had to be Dumbledore, but the ancient wizard was bent on staying at Hogwarts. Apparently, saving wizarding Britain wasn't as important as teaching children how to levitate feathers.

"They're finding more ways to slip past our net, boys," she said, giving them a chance to look through the files. "This is the prelude to a massive attack, possibly an assault on one of our cities, or even the Ministry itself."

"You think we might have a repeat of the Edinburgh Massacre?"

Amelia grimaced, wrestling with the urge to curse Sirius. The Edinburgh Massacre had occurred on the very first day she took office. Death Eaters apparating into the center of the city, shooting off Killing Curses as if it was Christmas. Seven hundred dead, including thirty aurors and as many of Voldemort's people. It was one of the worst terrorist attacks in recent history, and most people attributed the security failure to her, even though it had only been her first day as the Head of the DMLE.

Let no one claim the world is fair.

"As I was saying," she continued past gritted teeth. "I intend to bolster security around all high-risk zones. That includes Hogwarts, and that's where the two of you come in."

James Potter's fierce gaze was immediately on her. "I'm not taking up guard duty at Hogwarts, Commander," he said. "With all due respect, you need me out hunting these people. More so now that we have Nightwalkers in our backyard. I've passed every advancing training course Kingsley has put me through, and I'm confident I can bring down at least one them."

"I've got James' back wherever he goes," put in Sirius, his grin slipping into a more serious expression. "So if he's hunting Nightwalkers, I'll be there right beside him."

Amelia massaged her temple, letting out a deep breath. "Will the two of you _shut up_ for a moment? My head is killing me!" She downed the scalding cup of tea in a single gulp, disregarding their concerned looks. "The entire department has just been put through goddamned budget cuts, so now I have to just as much with even less resources! And then there's Scrimgeour, who expects me to turn the war around with a snap of my fingers, and all of wizarding Britain watching my every move, waiting for me to slipup so they can blame it all on someone!

"Not to mention Dumbledore," she ranted on, "who won't tell me squat of what's happening in Europe and who commands the loyalty of more than half my aurors, including the two of you!"

The men had the decency to look ashamed.

"Now listen well," she spat out. "Sirius, you're being assigned to Hogwarts. You'll have three aurors to help you out, and I'm sending Frank Longbottom along with you. I want a thorough report on my desk concerning the condition and effectiveness of the wards. My niece is studying there, so I'll have your balls if you screw this up."

Sirius might have whimpered. Just a little.

"James, I'm volunteering you to teach Battle Magic," she continued, raising her hand to stall his objections. "It's only once a week, so you'll head down to Hogwarts every Friday and teach them battle tactics and true fighting. Once a week, that's all I'm asking for. Severus Snape is the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, so I expect you to consult with him and get a sense of how proficient your students are."

"That slimy git," Sirius muttered.

James Potter could barely keep to his seat. "Why me, Commander? Send someone else, someone you can spare!" he demanded. "With the Nightwalkers in Britain, you need me out there. It'll take more than a few us to put a dent in their ranks, and it does no one any good to send me away to Hogwarts."

She brought her hand down sharpish. "These are my orders, and you'll obey or I'll have you bumped down to obliviating muggles!" she snapped. "I need someone who can teach them how to fight and someone they like. We did a poll last year, and you came out as the most popular auror in Britain. For the life of me, I can't imagine why. The girls love you, absurd as it is. Must be all that brooding."

Sirius let out a laugh that sounded almost like a barking dog, and slapped his thigh with mirth. "Wait until Lily hears this!" he taunted. "She'll lock you away until you're old and gray. Old and gay, more like."

"Shut it, Padfoot."

Amelia ignored their antics and pressed forward. "I need you to inspire more graduates to join us in the fight," she said, softening her tone slightly. "This is as important as storming after Death Eaters, James. You'll do this, and you'll do it well. Give inspiring speeches, show off some of that transfiguration skill I've heard so much about. Whatever it takes, I need fighters on my side or I won't have anyone to send out the battlefield."

The auror settled down with a long sigh of resignation. "Very well, but only once a week, and I won't tolerate fools. They'll learn my way, or I'll have them thrown out of my class."

"Look on the bright side," said Sirius. "You'll be closer to Lily. She'll teach you Potions; fulfill all your Professor Lily fantasies."

James Potter's cheeks flushed an uncharacteristic red, and Amelia wondered what she'd set into motion. The last thing she need now was the Daily Prophet featuring a story about one of her aurors caught naked in Hogwarts, having sex with a professor, even if she _was_ his wife.

"And you're daughter's also attending this year, isn't she?" asked Amelia, hoping to steer the conversation away. "Won't you rest easy knowing Rose is close by, easily within your reach? If only once a week?"

She knew she was laying it on thick, since he had already agreed, but it didn't harm anyone for her to butter-up the deal. "While you're not at Hogwarts," she continued. "You'll be, searching for whatever you can find on the Nightwalkers. I'm giving you, Kingsley and Savage each your own teams to do the job. I won't rest easy knowing I have dark wizards of their caliber roaming free on Britain's streets."

"Thank you, Commander," said James Potter immediately, his expression brightening. "I won't disappoint."

"You had better not, because I really do need more obliviators," she warned, at least half-serious. "For now, I want you coordinate with Kingsley and Savage and pick who you want for your teams. This isn't a competition, so share what you find with each other. I'll be briefing the three of you tomorrow, and I need some concrete ideas to work with in the meantime.

"You, on the other hand," she spoke to Sirius, "should pack your bags and head off to Hogwarts immediately. Dumbledore's expecting you by the end of today."

"Got it," he replied, giving her a mock salute.

They both stood, only to be stopped by a stern look from her. "I want to remind you that despite your loyalties to him, _I_ am still the Head of the DMLE, and you report directly to me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Commander," replied James.

"Sirius?"

"I report to you. Won't forget it, cross my heart."

* * *

As they walked out, Amelia Bones started reading her most recent report from Europe. Apparently, eight Death Eaters had been found dead in the Black Forest, one of them tortured and killed brutally. There was not much else to the report, and she made a note to ask Dumbledore about it. He had a greater grasp on what was going on down there than she did.

"You think I have a chance with her?" asked Sirius lightly as they walked away from their meeting with the Head of the DMLE.

"Hmm?"

"With her. Do you think I have a chance?"

James was distracted and barely spared a glance in his direction. "With who?"

"You know," he replied, an edge of annoyance in his voice.

"What are you talking about?"

"Lily," Sirius deadpanned. "I mean, now that we'll be spending so much time together at Hogwarts, I was wondering whether I should make a move—OWWW!"

James had hit him discreetly with a Stinging Hex, so quick that no one in the crowded hall even noticed. They were all staring at Sirius with reproving expressions, tut-tutting in their high and mighty manner, noses turned up as if he wasn't worth their consideration.

"What was that for?" he snapped, elbowing his best friend in the ribs. "It's not my fault you weren't listening, now answer my damn question."

"Stay away from her."

"I'm not talking about Lil—"

"I know who you're talking about, Padfoot," replied James, daring him to continue with that thought, "but she's the Head of the DMLE. And since when were you interested in her?"

Sirius grinned dreamily. "Since I saw her sitting behind that great, big desk," he said distantly. "I have authority issues, didn't you know? I need a good punishment to put me in my place."

"Oh, for the love of—can get your mind out of gutter and stow that nonsense for a second?" he demanded. "Did you hear what she said in there? We have Nightwalkers in Britain, Sirius. The last one killed six trained aurors before Kingsley caught up with him and put an end to it. He was lucky too, considering the man didn't try to cover his tracks, apparating all over the place."

That sobered him for the moment. It was no small thing, to overpower an auror, let alone six in a single encounter. Sirius and James hadn't been on scene that night, but the witness statements painted a gruesome picture. The aurors hadn't even stood a chance, cut down by the Nightwalker as if they were children right out of Hogwarts. The place was still scorched with dark magic, enough to make your gut wrench when you came to close to it.

Kingsley had somehow managed to follow the madman across Britain, tracking him through the _ephemera_—the magical signature—left behind by his apparations. He'd finally cornered the Nightwalker right in Diagon Alley, outside Flourish and Blotts. From what they'd heard around the watercooler, Kingsley had appeared out of thin air, shattered the Nightwalkers shields and killed him in twenty-seconds flat, blowing apart the man's chest without even trying to arrest him. The people there are the time refused to give any official statements, which left the whole matter an official mystery.

But some of the Wizengamot members had gone as far as to call it murder.

James and Sirius, on the other hand, had bought Kingsley a drink and celebrated until they were piss drunk.

"What do you suggest we do about it?"

"Hogwarts," said James simply. "It's too tempting a target for anyone on Voldemort's side. The difference is, we're not dealing with ordinary Death Eater's anymore. Nightwalkers may just have what it takes to slip past the school's wards, and we both know what a powerful wizard can do to school children at close quarters."

Sirius shrugged. "Dumbledore will destroy them if they come to Hogwarts, and we both know it," he replied indifferently. "And McGonagall's no pushover herself; I saw her fight in First War, and it was enough to scare the hell out of me. So long as there is breath in their lungs, they won't let anyone do serious damage in Hogwarts."

"Serious?" he asked, an edge to his voice. "You _do_ realize we're talking about children, don't you? I measure serious by the scale of a single death—even that's too much."

"Stop for a moment."

James kept going.

"Look, just stop."

The man came to a halt, but his shoulders were tense.

"I'll watch over Rose like a hawk—like a dog," he said, grinning just a little. "And Lily too. I'll make sure my rooms are close to Gryffindor Tower. Give me a month down there, I may even ask Amelia for a few more aurors. We'll have that place locked down so tightly that not even Rita Skeeter will be able to find her way in."

"Oh, don't bet on it. She goes even where the Dark Lord dares not."

Sirius leaned back, flabbergasted. "Was that a joke? My, my, Potter, I'm impressed."

The auror flipped him off and strode away, calling back over his shoulder. "Pack your bags, Sirius. Back to Hogwarts for you!"

* * *

"I'll tell you this, Longbottom," said Sirius, the dusk red around him. "There's no place like Hogwarts. My years here…they were the best of my life."

The school stood in the distance, chased with the deep colors of the setting sun. Its spires towered high over the castle, which was no more than a hulking mass in the fading light, grotesque against the backdrop of the Scottish Highlands. The walls cast long shadows over Hogwarts' grounds, which stretched all the way to the edge of the Forbidden forest, and the Black Lake sat quiet in all its dark glory, silent and without a ripple.

Frank Longbottom, a tall and powerful auror, smiled at the sight of the castle. "And mine too," he replied. "But let's not forget why we're here. Come, Dumbledore must be waiting."

They set out into the grounds, heading along the road from Hogsmead, and almost immediately encountered the wards. They pressed against him for a moment, unbearably thick, but slid over his flesh a moment later as he was accepted as a friend. If anyone who did not have permission attempted such an obvious breach, they would be frozen in place, held there by forces almost none could break. And even if they did manage to break free somehow, a dozen more defenses would be activated, each stronger than the first.

Sirius let the scent of Hogwarts seep into him, that of the forest and the grass, the lake and wind—all of it, bringing up a tide of memories, not all good, but still worth remembering. He could smell woodsmoke on the air, and a narrow line of grey rising toward the sky betrayed the location of Hagrid's hut. Sirius wanted to take a detour and have a chat with the half-giant, but he knew Longbottom wouldn't stand for it. They were, after all, on official business.

Their approach to the front of Hogwarts was heralded by a swift wind coming from the north, and far above the mountains in the distance, dark thunderheads flared with purple and blue lightning. He could taste the rain on the air; in an hour, the downpour would hide the turrets under swirling rain, the glazed windows of the Great Hall would shine with bursts of lightning, and the walls would rattle with the call of thunder.

He missed this place.

The massive oaken doors opened to admit them, and Sirius strode into Entrance Hall, its high vaulting ceiling rising far above him. The school was ancient, and he could feel it in bones as surely as he did when he was at Black Manor, amongst all his family's history. There was a sense of deep grandeur to it all, as if the stones themselves breathed with life. Hogwarts was a place of a magic and power, a place where the most gifted witches and wizards of history had passed through on their path to greatness.

Hogwarts was built in late Early Middle Ages, with the foundation stones laid by the four most celebrated wizards of their time, Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor. It was considered to have the most ancient and powerful protection in the whole of Britain, with some of the original defenses being forged by Godric Gryffindor's own hands, considered by many to be the most skilled warder in history. It was the task of every Headmaster since to learn Gryffindor's original designs and raise the defenses should the need ever arise.

It was for this very reason Hogwarts had never fallen into the hands of dark wizards, despite numerous attempts by some of the most powerful Dark Lords who have ever tainted history.

"Put your tongue back in your mouth, Sirius," came a loud drawl. "You'll catch a fly."

The man was tall and slightly gaunt, his black eyes hollow and without feeling. The shadows of the entrance hall seemed to stretch towards him, and the light dimmed where he walked, wrapping him in a sinister and powerful aura. His robes were dark and immaculate, not a stich out of place, and his hand never strayed far from where his wand sat ready in his pocket.

Sirius grinned and turned to the newest arrival. "Why, Snivellus," he replied, spreading his arms for a hug. "Slimy as ever, you fucking git."

That was the extent of their friendship. They hated each other and made no attempt to hide it.

"And you are as uncouth as I remember. The years seem to have done little for your wit."

"Uncouth? Really?" mocked Sirius. "Who even says that? Oh, before I forget, I bought you a present. Here."

He summoned a bottle of shampoo and sent it flying at Snape, but the Potions Master waved his hand dismissively, turning it to ash. If they'd been back at school, there would be a duel right about now, but neither of them made a move to attack the other. They weren't children any longer, and the slightest misstep would cost them their lives.

"You will keep a civil tongue in your mouth, puppy, or I'll have you thrown out," spoke Snape, dropping the temperature of the room several degrees. "It would do you well to remember you have no authority here other than that which Dumbledore awards you."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

Sirius threw his head back, dark hair flying wild, and roared with laughter. When he was done, the auror wiped away invisible tears and reached into his robes, drawing out a folded parchment. "I'm here on Amelia's orders, Snivey, m'boy," he replied. "Haven't you heard? I'm the auror appointed to guard Hogwarts and its grounds, with considerable executive powers at my disposable, I might add. For example, I can investigate anyone—_anyone_—who I believe is a threat to the students. Isn't that just topping?"

The man's expression grew darker.

"Dumbledore knows, of course," continued Sirius, savoring the moment. "I'm surprised he didn't mention it, you being his second-in-command and all. Trouble in paradise?"

The Potions Master waved his hand in an imperious gesture that communicated all his contempt. "You are a child." Eloquent and brief. "It doesn't surprise me, though, that they would send a dog to do guard duty. Quite fitting."

The auror shrugged nonchalantly. "You keep calling me a dog as if it's an insult, but I really don't see it that way, so keep at it, you slimy shit," he replied. "Longbottom and I are going up to the Headmaster's office. Why don't you scrub some cauldrons for Lily? Oh, wait, I forgot: she hates your guts."

And that slapped the sneer right off Snape's face. Gloating from his victory, Sirius and Longbottom walked past him deeper into Hogwarts, and Sirius's taunting laugh echoed through the halls, goading the former Death Eater into a fiery hatred.

* * *

In the next chapter, Harry has already arrived in Britain and is staying at his London apartment. Not everything as he imagined it would be, especially with the Eye of Everid showing him things he doesn't want to see.


	5. Chapter 4

**Recap**: I would like to remind everyone that when we last saw Harry, he'd left Frankfurt with a fake identity, bound for Britain, where a nice and cozy apartment awaited him. Furthermore, Moody bestowed the Eye of Everid on Harry, a magical object that allows a wizard to see through solid objects as well as to manifest latent magic in the form of exotic colors. Harry keeps the eye strapped to the inside of his arm, hidden by the sleeve of his robe. Back to the story.

Oh, and one of my readers (**Jarno**) didn't like the fact that Harry was going to act average in Hogwarts, meaning that he would have to hide his talents. I more or less agree with him, and therefore I won't make Harry look like a fool. He won't show off his talents, but he won't try to hide them that much either. So, thank you **Jarno**.

* * *

**FOUR**

_August 22__nd__, 1993_

There were days when Harry wanted nothing more than to tear off the Eye of Everid and lock it away, never to see the light. This was just one of those days. He'd never thought it possible to be overwhelmed by his senses, but the Eye changed his perspective on the world. It was incredibly disconcerting to have the power to see all things—what was happening downstairs in the apartment below, through the wall in your neighbor's home, above where the caretaker lived, or down on London's streets, in the midst of the crowd.

To be able to know your surroundings even in sleep—to be aware and focused. Harry attributed the majority of Moody's paranoia to the fact that he'd worn the Eye of Everid for many a long years. The sheer amount of information he gathered every second—just by sitting still in his bed and concentrating—could fill thousands of pages. Some of it certainly wasn't fit for a thirteen-year-old's eyes, but he couldn't stop himself from looking. Partly because that wasn't entirely how the Eye worked, and partly because he'd passed into the mysterious and inexplicable realm of puberty, and the woman in the apartment downstairs had a penchant for wearing nothing while she was alone at home.

It wasn't right, certainly, but there was nothing he could do. All that could be seen, he saw, and it hurt him so much.

Lid being pulled off pills—

Man rolling around in his sleep—

Girl crying in bed, no reason why—

Man shouting out of his window—

He pressed his hands against his head, but the images kept coming.

Boy on the street, watching cars pass—

Colors of magic, drifting, wafting, so many wards—

The sun in the sky, the birds in the trees—

Flick out grime from beneath his teeth, brush with toothpaste—

Fat man sitting on a couch, reading a book, on and on, hours go by—

His head hurt, damnit but Harry's head hurt. Look too deep and all you could do was look, see the things you weren't meant to see, witness what should never have been witnessed, and the world was buzzing, heaving, churning, roaring, the glass melting off the walls, the leaves falling off the trees to reveal the bare truth underneath, the mists parting between what was, what is, what will be and through the mists he saw nothing but madness—confusion—so much he couldn't comprehend. This was his life.

"ARGHH!"

The worst of it, however, was the burden of all that he saw, the responsibility it placed on his shoulders. For example, Harry had watched a neighbor slap his wife around every day since he moved in. The Eye didn't afford him acute hearing, so he never knew why he did what he did, but it seemed to him that the beatings were merely on whim. Whenever the man felt down, when he felt like the world wasn't treating him well, he would call his wife into the living room and give her a good thrashing. The building was reserved for wizards and witches, of course, so the man would occasionally whip his wand out occasionally and have some fun with her while she was down.

And he was doing it again.

Right now.

At this very moment.

Beating his wife.

And the Eye of Everid saw it all.

Harry didn't even realize what he was doing until he had cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself and walked right out of his apartment. The lizard part his brain, the one without emotion, the Fortress where he locked it all away, was already contemplating all the different ways he could make the man pay. Moody had made sure to teach him about pain. An art form, he called it, known only to those who have themselves spent time under the torturer's blade. The Cruciatus was too blunt, too obvious—it had neither flare nor elegance.

Harry knew other ways.

He could flay the flesh off him in long, perfect strips.

Transfigure a drop of sulphuric acid right into his marrow.

Gently apply force to his cranium until his skull burst like a watermelon hitting pavement.

He could put him under the Imperius and make him serve his wife like a slave.

Penetrate the man's mind with Legilimency and plague him with images of death.

Harry was already standing outside the man's door, his wand pointed to unlock it. And that's when the rational part of him kicked in. He remembered why he was here, what he was doing in London, what his purpose was, and what he was putting at risk by even considering this. One misstep could possibly have a dozen aurors in the building, and it wasn't even an unlikely event considering the delicate state of security in Britain. What would he do then?

He had almost washed all of Moody's teachings down the drain in a single moment of weakness.

Harry heard a muffled sob through the door, and then the sound of flesh striking flesh. With the Eye, he saw the man standing over his wife, his hand raised to strike her again. And he did. Once, twice—a third time.

Harry forced himself to turn around.

He forced himself to walk away.

He was out on the streets in a second, walking swiftly, letting his feet guide him wherever they would. All around him, there was corruption and pain, and the Eye let him see it all in a kaleidoscope of images. No wonder Moody was half-mad, driven to seclusion and coldness by the evil he saw in world, the ugliness now so clear to Harry. How had he never seen it before? Was it just ignorance or was it a willful effort not to admit that the world was broken, that there was no innocence? He didn't have the answers, and he imagined neither had Moody.

The poor, miserable man. He'd never known peace, not a moment in his life.

Harry somehow stumbled onto the Knight Bus in his aimless wandering and listened to Stan Shunpike's drone for all of ten seconds before he was dropped off outside the Leaky Cauldron, just the place he wanted to be. It was a small, grubby-looking pub squeezed in between two larger buildings. If someone hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the lingerie shop on the other as if they couldn't see it at all.

Harry crossed the curb and walked through the dimlit doorway of the Leaky Cauldron. For such a popular place, it was very dark and untidy—almost purposefully so, as if appealing to the clientele's less refined tastes. A few aging women sat in the far corner, sipping on small glasses of sherry. Some even smoked long pipes, puffing blue, purple and red smoke into air.

"Heimrich!" called Tom from behind the bar, recognizing him from the few occasions he'd visited before. "A drink?"

"Why not?" he replied, unable to add any cheer to his voice.

The man pointed him to a table near bar, and Harry made himself comfortable, staring down at the wood grain as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. Even if he didn't look around, even if he tried to shut out the world, the Eye of Everid made sure he saw it all, even the man in one of Tom's rooms, throwing up into the toilet, too drunk to know his own name.

"I know that look," said the waitress, setting his Butterbeer down (which was legal for all above thirteen). "Had a rough day?"

Harry's breath escaped in a rasping laugh. "A rough life, more like," he replied, setting two sickles down. "Thanks, Sally."

"No problem, hun. Call me if you need anything else."

Harry took a sip from his sickly-sweet drink and settled back in his chair, observing the patrons with idle curiosity. People-watching was fun at times, mostly because it revealed a lot about the country's situation and general public sentiment on world affairs. Half the people here were complaining about the rise in taxes, and the other half traded rumors about Voldemort's growing influence in Europe and a possible alliance with Cosimo, which Harry thought was nothing more than pointless speculation.

Cosimo and the Dark Lord hated each other as much as they did Dumbledore. There could only be so many tyrants in the ocean, and two was certainly far too many.

Besides, Cosimo was an idealist. He'd deluded himself into believing he was the quintessence of peace, an agent of change. He reviled Voldemort's blatant violence while turning a blind eye to what his own people did in Italy and Northern Africa, subjugating all those who opposed him. The man's hypocrisy was a subject of trenchant academic debate. At least Voldemort didn't lie about what he did; Cosimo on the other hand…he wanted you to believe he was beneficent and noble, some grand leader worth respect.

"How's business, Tom?" asked a man at the bar, sitting down with a sigh. He was facing away, but Harry could tell he had a dark, disorderly mass of hair. "I hear it's going well."

The bartender passed him a bottle and wiped the counter down with a dirty cloth, his expression darkening somewhat. "It's war-time, James. People come here to drown their sorrows, and bad as it sounds, I'm making money."

Well, at least one business was going well. From what Harry had seen, there was a lingered shadow over most of Britain. People still smiled, they laughed and they talking, but the smiles were strained, the laughter hollow, and their words were merely a prelude to conversations of a darker kind, concerning the bleak future of their nation.

"What about you?" asked Tom, after he'd handed another customer a drink. "I hear the aurors have it real tough these days, what with Scrimgeour pushing for results."

At the mention of aurors, Harry's hand drifted a few inches closer to his wand. _So the man's an auror_, he thought to himself, _that doesn't mean you have to be nervous_. Lately, he seemed to think just because he had the ability to see nearly everything, so did everyone else. But it wasn't like the auror could look at Harry and recognize him as a fraud. He looked like everyone else, a harmless person just having a drink, there to rid himself of the pain like the rest of them.

"Who told you about Scrimgeour?" asked the auror, the frown evident in his voice. "That's not exactly common knowledge."

"Dawlish and the boys were in here yesterday, complaining."

"Dawlish is always complaining about something," muttered the man darkly. "It would do him some good not to discuss official business outside the office. It's one thing for you to hear, another for some Dark Lord minion."

"Aye, and I said so myself. Never know who's listening these days." Tom leaned against the bar, his giant arms folded over themselves. "So what you doing here in the middle of the day, James? Didn't take you for the kind to drown his sorrows."

"You're right, I'm not. Lily and Rose are shopping for Hogwarts. It's my daughter's first year there," he replied, his tone softening somewhat. "Lily was running around, buying all these thing—you know how women are. I left them at Flourish and Blotts and decided to spend some time here. It's been a few weeks."

The words settled in Harry's mind, and for a moment he couldn't make sense of them. The auror's name was James, and he had just mentioned someone named Lily. The pieces were falling into place, slowly but unbelievably.

What were the chances? Could it really…but that would mean...was it even possible?

He downed the last of his Butterbeer and walked over to the bar, staring intently at the stranger using the Eye. Even past the blood thundering through his head, Harry recognized the similarities between them. They had the same jaws, the same wide brows and messy hair. In fact, he felt a sudden, irrational spike of fear, afraid he would be recognized, but then another part of him scoffed at the absurdity of the idea, and he kept going.

It'd been thirteen years. No one could possible guess who he was.

"Thanks for the drink, Tom," he said, slapping another two sickles down, and looking at his father again—just to make sure it was all really happening. "Have a good day."

"You too, Heimrich."

And the moment he was out of there, Harry sped up, lengthening his stride until he was practically racing down Diagon Alley. If he moved quickly, there was a chance he could catch a glimpse of his mother before she left Flourish and Blotts. The possibility of seeing her was too much for him to grasp all at once.

_Will I even recognize her_, he thought in fear? _Moody said she had red hair. And green eyes, like mine. She won't be all that difficult to spot—_

Harry slammed into someone.

The girl let out a tiny scream, fell over and landed on her butt.

Harry barely staggered, but is mind cleared suddenly. He was immediately beside her, lifting her up by the arms, one apology after another slipping past his lips. He gathered her books, which had slipped out of a shopping back, and stuffed them back in, still muttering embarrassedly.

"It's fine," said the girl with a weak smile, accepting her books. "Really, it's fine."

She was younger than he was, two years at least. She had red-gold hair and green eyes, and she seemed about as awkward as he was at the moment. Even as she took her books from him, Harry felt like he had met her before, or at least crossed paths.

"Rose!" called a panicked voice from close behind. "Rose, are you alright?"

A woman was suddenly between them, looking the girl over, a small frown on her face. They were almost identical, one older the other younger. And Harry knew, in the deepest part of him, that this was his mother. He didn't doubt it, not for a second, not after he'd seen those eyes, so much like his own, filled with love for the little girl, unaware of him.

"Mum, I'm not hurt." Complained the little girl. "Mum! Please…_you're embarrassing me!_"

"Oh, honey, I thought you hit your head," she said, running a hand through her daughter's hair. "Haven't been so frightened since Seamus Finnegan blew up his cauldron in Potions class."

They had apparently forgotten about him, and for some odd reason, Harry wanted to be a part of whatever was going on. He wanted her to look at him, to acknowledge his existence, if even for the briefest moment. It wasn't jealousy he felt, but deep and painful yearning—a curiosity that burned him down to the gut.

"I…" Harry began, the words escaping him suddenly, "I…I…hello?"

The woman seemed to realize there was someone else there and turned to him—Lily turned to him. "Oh, I'm sorry I didn't ask about you," she said, reaching out to touch his shoulder briefly. The contact searing his skin like the worst Cruciatus, leaving an invisible mark on him. "I hope you're not hurt."

"N-n-n-n," he managed to choke out. "I mean, _no_. I'm fine, thank you for asking. I wasn't looking, foolish of me. If there's anything I can do—buy you new books? I might have dusted those up a little."

Lily Potter waved a hand and gave him a bright smile, her hair on fire in the sunlight. "Nonsense!" she replied, and then frowned abruptly as if a thought had struck her. "Are you a Hogwarts student? I don't recognize you from any of my classes."

Could his luck get any better?

Could the universe conspire any more obviously than it had?

His mother—Lily Potter—was teaching at Hogwarts. _Teaching at Hogwarts_, where he was going to spend the rest of the year.

If Moody were there, he would have told Harry to run. "Run for the hills, boy," he would have said. "No good can come of this."

But he wouldn't run. Not after seeing the object of so many of his dreams and nightmares.

Harry realized they were staring at him oddly, and it must have been odd, certainly. He'd been standing there, open-mouthed, for over twenty seconds, not a word on his lips. They probably thought him mad! He couldn't let his mother believe that.

"It's my first year," he blurted quickly, trying to make up for lost time. Little good that would do. "I mean, I'm a third year, but this will be the first year I attend Hogwarts."

"Oh?"

"I'm a Durmstrang transfer," he explained, offering his hand. "Heimrich Riddle."

She took it and smiled, almost knocking him off his feet with that tiny glimpse of impersonal affection. "Lily Potter, and this is my daughter, Rose," she replied, indicating the girl, who shuffling about, apparently quite bored. "Well, let me be the first to welcome you to Hogwarts, Heimrich, if a little early. I'll be teaching you Potions."

_Potions_, he thought. _Great! At least it's not something boring, like Muggle Studies. And it helps that I have no experience with potions. But what if she recognizes me? What if I slip, say something I'm not supposed to?_

"I look forward to your class," Harry replied, finally managing to gather his thought. He backed away slowly, all his fears rising in him. "I apologize for interrupting your day. Sorry if I hurt you, Rose. Goodbye!"

And with that, he walked away, trying not to run. Trying not to flee as far as he could. Moody's warnings came back to him in a rush of fear. If Voldemort ever found out he was here, in Britain, he wouldn't hesitate to take Lily or James. What was worse, there was now Rose to consider as well, a sister he never knew he had, a sibling to whom he owed a duty of care, one that rested heavily on his shoulders.

This was a living nightmare

It was dream come true.

He couldn't decide.

In the space of a few minutes, he'd seen his whole family, right there before his eyes, close enough to touch, to confess to all his secrets, but he could never do it, not if he wanted them to live.

But the joy of having seen them, alive and well, filled him with an emotion he'd never felt.

* * *

Harry was still floating on a tide of giddy happiness when he returned to his apartment building, stepping off the Knight Bus with a smile that had most the passengers wondering whether he was out of his mind.

Today was different. It was the beginning of a new life for Harry, a break from his fatalist and skeptical outlook towards the world, and the start of a more accepting attitude—one he wouldn't allow to be influenced by the darkness of his past.

Today was—

The Eye of Everid focused unerringly on the scene. The man was furious, he was shouting at his wife again, pushing her up against the wall, roaring in her face, prodding her cheek with a stiff finger. His hand came up, grabbing her by the hair, shaking her as if she were ragdoll. Abusing, merciless and violent—cruel.

And just like that, in a single instant, Harry's happiness was gone. All of it—_poof_. Everything that had taken place, seeing his father, meeting his mother—his sister—all washed down the drain because of _that_ man. His joy robbed from him, his brief moment of light stripped away without care by the actions of a selfish and weak person.

This time, however, he didn't hesitate.

Harry was through the door in an instant. The man had his wife by the throat, and he was squeezing with all his strength. Harry's stunner caught him in the back before he realized what was happening, and the second spell hit his wife, who collapsed quietly beside her husband. Neither had the chance to so much as cry out in alarm.

With a wave of his wand, he shut the door behind him, locking it firmly with a spell that most wouldn't be able to dismantle.

Harry levitated the wife's body and took her into the room, placing her down gently on the bed. He brushed her hair aside and took a close look at the bruises on her face. The Eye let him see those under the clothes, covering her ribs, stomach and thighs. A map of purples and blues, detailing her horrid past at the hands of her abuser.

"_Episkey_," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Harry ran his wand over her body, stopping occasionally where the bruising was worst, and after a few minutes, he cancelled the spell, observing his handiwork with pleasure. He wanted to wake her, to tell her she was safe, that no one would ever lay a hand on her again, but he knew that wasn't an option. She would more likely scream and fight him than show any gratitude for what he'd done.

Instead, he aimed his wand at her forehead and spoke aloud.

"_Obliviate_."

He took away the last twenty minutes. She would be disoriented for a few hours, struggling with the sensation that something was missing, but she would never know what really happened. Careless Memory Charms were reversible if a skilled wizard attempted the memory recovery, but Harry knew ways to perform a thorough scrubbing, uprooting the memory from the mind and utterly destroying it.

When he was done, he exited the room and returned to the husband. Harry drew his foot back and kicked him—hard. Right in the ribs. He did it twice more, just for his own satisfaction, and was surprised at how good it felt to let out his pent-up anger towards the man. How long had he held it all in? Far too long, clearly.

"_Rennervate_."

The man gasped awake, jerking forward and clutching at his ribs in agony. His eyes widened at the sight of Harry, face twisted in a grimace of pain, standing there wand in hand.

"Who the fu—?"

"_Legilimens_."

He plummeted into the man's mind, into his memories, but he had no interest in the creature's sordid past. He didn't want to see what he'd done to others, or the abuse that had been visited upon him to make him such an utter piece of shit. Harry wanted to get it over with, return to his apartment and sleep it all off. To dream of his family and other their love, and put this darkness behind him.

He summoned forth memories, memories of screaming Death Eaters, of burning enemies, and he forced them into the man's head. He imagined things that had never happened, things that would make you sick, and planted them firmly in the deepest part of the despicable creature. He showed him all that would be done if he ever again struck his wife, and the horrors that would be visited upon him if she ever cried again. He funneled pure terror into the man, the deepest horrors he could imagine.

_I will know_, he spoke in the man's mind. _I will watch you forever, and I will know if you hurt her, or anyone else. And I will be back._

Then, Harry sought out the memories of himself, all the images of his own face, and erased them from the man's mind. The man would remember his fear, his revulsion and he would remember all that Harry had shown him, but he wouldn't be able to recall where they came from, just that they were real. That the threat was real.

When Harry emerged from the man's mind, he was assailed by the acrid smell of urine. The first time Moody had done that to him, his response had been much the same, but it was still satisfying to see another react as he had. It meant Moody had taught him at least one thing right.

With a flick of his wand, he knocked the man unconscious again, to wake in a few hours. He cast a brief look around, searching the apartment for some sign of his presence that he might have left by mistake, but he saw nothing. With another kick to the husband's ribs, Harry walked out of the apartment and ascended to his home, where he sought the comfort of silence.

* * *

Next chapter, Harry makes the acquaintance of one Hermione Granger aboard the Hogwarts Express.


End file.
